Bosch started running toward the sound of the crash.

“The wind turbine,” he yelled.

“What wind turbine?” she yelled back.

Bosch turned the corner of the house and saw smoke and scattered fires on the hillside. There was a strong smell of fuel in the air. Mendenhall caught up to him and with the beam of her flashlight led the way.

The helicopter had fallen no more than 150 feet but had completely broken apart on impact. There was a fire burning on the hillside to the right, where the fuel tank had apparently separated and exploded. They found Drummond beneath the shattered cockpit canopy, his limbs broken and at unnatural angles to his torso, his forehead gashed deeply by torn metal in the crash. When Mendenhall put the light on his face, he reacted, slowly opening his eyes.

“My God, he’s alive,” she said.

Drummond’s eyes followed her as she moved about, clearing debris off him, but his head did not turn. His lips moved but his breathing was too shallow for him to make a sound.

Bosch crouched down and put his hands into the left pocket of Drummond’s jacket. He retrieved his cell phone and badge wallet.

“What are you doing?” Mendenhall said. “We need to get him help and you can’t remove things from a crime scene.”

Bosch ignored her. It was his property and he was taking it back. Mendenhall pulled out her phone to call for paramedics and investigators. Meanwhile, Bosch patted the pocket on the other side of Drummond’s jacket and felt the form of a gun. His gun, he knew. He looked at Drummond’s face.

“I want you to keep that, Sheriff. Let them find it on you.”

He heard Mendenhall curse and he turned to look back at her.

“I can’t get a signal,” she said.

Bosch slid his thumb across his phone’s screen and it came to life. It appeared that it had survived the crash intact and in working order. It also had a three-bar signal.

“I’ve got nothing,” he said.

He put the phone in his pocket.

“Damn it!” Mendenhall said. “We have to do something.”

“Do we really?” Bosch said.

“Yes,” Mendenhall said pointedly. “We do.”

Bosch locked eyes with Drummond.

“Go back down to the house,” he called out. “I saw a phone in the kitchen.”

“All right. I’ll be back.”

Bosch turned and watched Mendenhall start down the hill. He then looked back at Drummond.

“Just you and me now, Sheriff,” he said softly.

Drummond had continually been trying to say something. Bosch finally dropped down to his hands and knees and leaned his ear toward Drummond’s mouth. Drummond spoke in a shallow, halting voice.

“I . . . can’t . . . feel anything.”