He closed his eyes, drifted away, and heard Lisa’s music, not Floyd’s, playing at the back of his mind. It came with a pang of emptiness and hurt. “Some dreams are found where the lows don’t go, this is the cradle that rocks my soul.”

He hadn’t found everything he’d been looking for.

Sixty-four miles southeast of Pale Bone—at around the time that Luke, Kitty, and Tera Montecino were being loaded into ambulances in the parking lot of the Rattlesnake Hotel—State Trooper Shane Broman of Arizona’s Highway Patrol Division made note of a vehicle heading eastbound on State Route 68. He grabbed his radio, gave his unit number, and asked for confirmation of the BOLO alert that had come through NCIC some forty-five minutes before.

Dispatch: “A 2012 Ford Econoline, blue, Nevada plate: two-five-Charlie-six-one-four.”

Broman: “In pursuit. Code three.”

He flicked on lights and sirens and slammed his boot to the floor. Within seconds he was up behind the vehicle. He expected a chase, but the driver pulled onto the shoulder without incident. Through his PA system, Broman ordered the occupants to step out of the vehicle, slowly, with their hands on their heads.

The driver’s door opened. Ramón Sojo Aparicio stepped into the swirling light as instructed.

“On your knees, now. Keep your hands on your head.”

Ramón fell to his knees. He was bleeding and bruised. He was also sobbing. “Lo siento,” he mumbled, over and over: I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Broman flex-cuffed him and threw him into the back of the cruiser. He was going to wait for assistance before opening the back of the van—the cargo could be hazardous—but went ahead when he heard what sounded like a woman in distress.

Later, State Trooper Broman described to a gaggle of jostling, excited reporters what he found when he opened the doors:

“Five female occupants, aged, at my best guess, between eighteen and thirty. Three Latina, one African American, one Caucasian. All were clearly traumatized, malnourished, and extremely scared.”

Mallory Mayflower of Fox 10 news asked State Trooper Broman if he recognized the African American woman as the missing R&B singer Lisa Hayes.

“No, ma’am,” Broman said, and smiled. “I’m really more of a country-and-western guy.”

Lisa spent eight days at the UCLA Medical Center, where she was treated, evaluated, and questioned by authorities. She was then admitted to Yolanda Grove, a psychiatric care facility in Pasadena. The help (and medication) she received there proved invaluable, from simple exercises designed to redevelop her motor functions and memory, to hypnosis, neurofeedback, and cognitive therapy.