They turned off Whittier Boulevard and drove a long way along a well-paved road. The road ran between fields; there were a few dark houses and occasionally a light at an intersection.
Kells sat on the left side of the tonneau and Borg sat on the right side and Taylor was between them. Gilroy and Faber were in front. Gilroy had insisted on coming. Beery had gone home.
Kells said: “Where is Rose?”
Taylor made a resigned gesture with one hand. “I tell you, Mister Kells — I don’ know,” he said. “If I knew—”
Borg swung his fist around into Taylor’s face.
Taylor whimpered and put his arms up over his face. He tried to slide farther down in the seat, and Borg put his arm around his shoulders and held him erect.
“Where’s Rose?” Kells pursued relentlessly.
“I don’ know, Mister Kells... I swear to God I don’ know...” Taylor spoke into the cloth of his coat sleeve; the words were broken, sounded far away.
Borg pulled Taylor’s arm down from his face very gently, held his two hands in his lap with one of his hands, swung his fist again.
Taylor struggled and freed one of his hands and put it over his bloody face. “I tell you I got orders that was supposed to come from Rose,” he panted — “but they were over the phone... I don’t know where they was from...”