I could see Katrina wince every time I hit him, and she no doubt was regretting she'd ever agreed to my plan. But her role during this stage was to be perfectly silent, to be the mysterious lump in the front seat. I just kept reminding myself of Mel Torianski's exploding head and the three guys who tried to murder Katrina and me, and my qualms abated.
We took the Palisades Parkway exit and headed toward Bear Mountain State Park. The drive took about forty minutes, with me smacking Martin every few minutes, Katrina shaking her head, and Martin mewling like a lamb dancing with the big bad wolf.
We crossed the Bear Mountain Bridge and took a left, heading toward Garrison. After about two miles I told Katrina to pull over at the next dirt road leading into the woods, which she did. I reached across Martin, swung open the car door, and shoved him out into the mud. He flew out face first and yelped. I came out right behind him, grabbed him by the scruff of his fancy Burberry raincoat, and dragged him into the woods. Katrina followed.
She asked, "Where you are taking him?" using a fabricated Russian accent.
"Where nobody can see me cut his throat," I yelled. The shock of that registered instantly on Martin's face.
Then we were into the bushes. I dragged and shoved Martin through the thick underbrush and every time he tried to stop, I slapped him across the head, the loud whacks echoing through the forest. We moved like this for half a mile, him occasionally slipping and falling onto the ground, and me kicking him in the ass every time he did, because Martin was a guy who'd never been humiliated in his life, never been subjected to such indignities, a guy who'd led a perfectly spoiled existence--Groton, Yale, a comfortable writer's life.
I finally grabbed his collar from behind and threw him stomach first onto the ground. He let out a loud "whoomph," then looked up, his expression hurt and terrified. "W-what do you want? Money? I'll pay you. I'll never tell anybody, I swear."
This is the standard plea of all kidnap victims, trying to regain some sense of power, some control over their destiny. It's a natural response to try to negotiate, to find your tormentor's motive, to assert any kind of grip you can get on the situation.
I kicked him in the chest so hard that he went somersaulting backward and onto his stomach. I reached down and lifted him by his collar and the back of his pants, then hurled him through the air. He came down on his stomach with a loud scream.
He had to know I was much stronger than him, that he was powerless, that negotiation was out of the question. He had to know he had no control. He had to feel the sheer terror of being in the hands of a wildman.
I bent down on my haunches and put my face squarely in front of his. I flashed the hunting knife.
His eyelids stretched open, while Katrina said, "Oh, God, I cannot watch this. I must return back to car. I will be getting sick."
Martin's eyes darted from me to her. You knew exactly what he was thinking, because the thoughts scampering through his addled head were exactly what he was meant to think. What was with this woman's accent? And she was obviously his only chance against the pitiless bastard with the knife. If she left, he was dead.
He yelled something in Russian, his voice trembling with fear.
Katrina said something back, and I yelled, "You two stop it! Speak goddamn English."
Katrina coldly said, "He begs us not to kill him. He says he can make it worth our while."
I let loose a nasty chuckle. "And your government would find us and kill us. Let's get this over with."
The shock of that registered very clearly on Martin's face. "The Russian government?" he asked, sounding dismayed. "Please, there has to be a mistake. W-what are you talking about?"
I inched closer like I had no intention of discussing this with a man I intended to butcher.
"Please," Martin begged, looking imploringly into the eye-slots of my ski mask. "You're making a mistake. The Russians don't want me dead."
I was shaking my head, while Katrina swiftly said, "The order I have been given is most clear. You are to be disposed of. Is no mistake."
"No, no, it's wrong. I work for the Russians," he squealed,