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Marion was just as pretty in her way. She was taller, almost five nine, and fuller but not unpleasingly heavy. That she was more mature than Judith was the first impression (she was six months younger). It had much to do with Marion's height and her ample breasts and the way she carried herself and moved about, always at an easy pace that implied patience, experience. She had a lovely honest laugh. Her hair, styled semi-short and wavy, was Miss Clairol light ash blonde shade number 28. However, she didn't get it from Clairol. It was hers naturally and her pubic hair proved it.

There was nothing masculine about either of these women. Quite the contrary, it was each other's total femininity that they found so desirable.

From the time they began experimenting with tenderness they knew they were taking a step out of step. But then neither considered it really infidelity. It was contemporary derring-do more than anything. Whispering:

“You like that?”

“Mmmm.” (Conveying more than yes.)

“Does this feel nice?”

“Strange.”

“Oh?”

“I mean different, better, without even trying.”

“How about there?”

“You know.”

“I know.”

Fingertips, as light as possible, the very tips of nails barely touching, tracing the outline of arm from shoulder slowly all the way slowly to finger crotches. Their advantage was having confidence in delicacy, to run the sensitive surfaces of sides with conscientious touch, down the dips of waists, up the rises of hips, circling aureoles, appreciatively, and no doubt about it. Giving attention to neglected places that often showed relief by changing texture.

“There must be a better word for it.”

“What?”

“Goose bumps.”

Exploring, laying hands on with feathery slight contact. Spending an entire hour not moving, just holding, being gently pressed. Taking nothing for granted, not even taking giving for granted, but gradually over the stolen hours discovering one another's preferences and mentally tucking them away for future unselfish and selfish use.

So this was what they had heard and wondered about; this was what some women had done, were doing now? It wan't bad. It was certainly more than they had expected. They hadn't expected to unleash such insatiability, being able to achieve and cause again and again. It amazed them. They thought of it as the blessing of being female. A man could cope with it, perhaps, but hardly match or share it.

They were two months into it before they kissed; long, open mouth to mouth. For some reason of conscience they considered
that
the beginning of marital deception. For a while guilt intruded, tried to wedge seriously between them. They shut it out by getting even closer. They increased the flow of reliance. Fought guilt with affection.

Recently, however, they had been brought to face a truly practical crisis.

Judith's husband, Fred, was considering changing jobs. He had received an offer from a firm in Springfield, Massachusetts. It meant a substantial increase in salary and another rung up the executive climb. When he told Judith about it he thought she'd be delighted, all for it. She managed to act that way, despite the shock.

If it came about, for Judith and Marion it meant the end of the double standard they were enjoying. They'd be forced to choose: be separated by a whole continent, or bring it all out into the open, declare themselves.

They were in favor of standing up and out. However, the consequences of such a decision were numbing. Gone would be the financial security they now almost unconsciously counted on. They would have to fend for themselves. Neither ever had. And that might not be the worst of it. No court in the country would grant them custody of their daughters. What court would ever decide in favor of a lesbian mother?

What to do?

The most logical and likely thing, Marion suggested, was for Judith to talk Fred out of taking the new job. Then everything could remain as was.

The dissuading campaign began.

Judith and Marion collaborated on strategies. Judith peppered husband Fred with uncertainty regarding the Massachusetts move. For believability she acted ambivalent. Sometimes she seemed pleased with the idea, contentedly made plans in that direction — next she nourished small doubts into full-grown, adamant opposition, which was, she hoped, more impressive. Damn California, anyway! If only the weather were better she could have used that for ammunition. She did anyway, forecasted horrid slush and below-zero days in the family's future.

Such tactics had not brought about as much progress as hoped for. Nothing definite. Fred no longer expressed enthusiasm for the change, but Judith could tell he still wanted it. It could still go either way.

Now in number 43 of the Holiday Inn there was Judith in the supersanitized bathroom close up to the mirror. Using a tiny, sharp-pointed brush she outlined her mouth with lipstick and then filled in straight from the tube. She blotted with a tissue that she discarded into the toilet bowl, giving attention, for some reason, to the way the tissue became nearly invisible as it became wet, while the imprint of her mouth on it became more pronounced.

She appraised herself in the mirror. Her eyes seemed vague, she thought, a little glazed, perhaps a result of having come so many times. She doubted the look would give her away, but she blinked rapidly, trying to eliminate it. Then she gathered her makeup into its small, overcrowded, zippered cloth bag and went out to the bedroom. She expected Marion to also be dressed and ready to leave, but Marion was still nude and on the bed.

Judith told her: “It's after four.”

No comment from Marion. She was front up with her legs angled over the bed's edge. Judith understood.

“We'll be late as it is.”

Marion's gaze continued upward and Judith recognized the soft covered quality of it, the want behind it. Confirmed when Marion slowly tightened in her stomach and clenched her buttocks, causing her pelvic mound to rise, requesting.

“Come on,” Judith urged, not wholeheartedly.

Marion did it again.

Less than an hour later they were six miles from Dana Point. Marion was driving. She turned off the Coast Highway to where Judith, as usual, had left her car — in the parking area of the Seaside Supermarket. They entered the market together, ran in from the rain to buy convenient, fancy frozen things that would make it seem as though they had spent quite a lot of time and imagination preparing the evening's dinners.

3

Warren Stevens was cleaning one of his rifles.

The rifle his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday two years ago. It was a Champlain and Haskins 458 Magnum with the distinctive tapered octagonal barrel. Anyone who knew firearms knew right off it cost fifteen hundred.

Warren liked this rifle best because it had brought him recognition. He had gotten a grizzly with it — a six-hundred-fifty-pound bald-face grizzly, more scientifically known as an
Ursus horribilis
. Warren had looked that up and always said it because he thought it sounded monstrous.

He had gotten the bear with a single shot in the throat. His father had never been so proud. Imagine, a boy standing up to a charging bear, and not just an ordinary bear, but the kind big-game hunters said was as dangerous as a lion or tiger. Boy, talk about courage!

No one had witnessed Warren's kill of the bear, but there was no reason to doubt his version of it. When Stevens senior and the guide came running, Warren was trembling with excitement and too modest to say anything, and there was the bear dead on its side with its right front paw up, as though taking a deadly swipe at heaven — and with its mouth wide open, corners pulled way back exposing its teeth. The taxidermist in Missoula who did the head was grateful for the final, ferocious expression the bear had given him to work with. The skin, with its reddish mane and black dorsal stripe, was made into a rug that was the first and last thing Warren stepped on each day. The claws and teeth were polished and strung into a necklace Warren put on sometimes.

Stevens senior told the story of that hunt and exhibited the head every chance he got. He always elaborated on how the bear looked as it charged, how it bristled hatefully and growled its killing growl when it attacked; in only a second or two it would have ripped Warren to shreds. Stevens senior added more detail each time he told it, not stealing thunder but heaping praise.

Warren had become tired of hearing it. He wished he could do something else that would be considered more courageous. All he wanted was the chance.

Such were his thoughts now as he applied lemon oil to the Circassian walnut stock of the rifle and buffed it vigorously. He snapped the Zeiss Diavari D telescopic sight onto its mount, brought the rifle up and sighted through it. Out through his bedroom window. He fixed the cross hairs on a figure moving among wet foliage on the hillside about three hundred yards away. One of the ranch hands. Warren took up the slack of the familiar trigger and began the careful squeeze that he'd first learned when he was five.

Rain drove against the pane, diffusing.

Damn, goddamn rain, Warren thought, it was ruining everything. Yesterday he had overheard his father saying how much damage was being done to the avocado groves. The roots of the trees would rot if the rain kept on. There'd be no crop this year or maybe never again from the Rancho Stevens.

Besides, this was supposed to have been the week for maneuvers at Camp Pendleton. Colonel Owens, a family friend, had invited Warren to watch from the command post vantage. Warren had been looking forward to it for over a month. He'd been told it would be the next best thing to an actual amphibious assault, with live ammo being used and everything. Guys always got hurt, even killed sometimes.

But the maneuvers had been called off.

Because of the rain.

Freaking rain, Warren thought, having nothing to do. He couldn't even go bird shooting. He leaned the rifle against the chair and stood gazing out, hating the rain, personally hating it.

He wasn't a handsome young man. His eyes that weren't large enough also lacked adequate space between them. His upper lip was sparse, while the lower was quite full, which made his natural expression seem grouchy, obstinate. It often surprised people when Warren smiled. His hair was sandy, cut short. It had an uncontrollable cowlick. He was medium height, still had some to grow. His chest and neck muscles were overdeveloped from lifting weights.

Call Leland, he thought. Leland was his buddy. Leland might want to drive down to T (Tijuana), have some beers and take in some dirty shows. Last time they'd gone they had seen a girl with a goat, and Leland had thrown up outside the place, blaming the enchiladas they'd eaten earlier.

Warren was about to make the call when his attention caught on movement outside, below on the wide drive. It was Lois, his only sister. She was two years younger, a pretty blonde, mature for her age, typically Californian in that respect. Warren watched her get into her new blue Mustang convertible. Going where? Warren believed he knew, according to the rumors that had been ricocheting around. He'd gotten it from several directions over the past few weeks, but it hadn't occurred to him until now that he ought to be showing some responsibility, protecting his baby sister. At least it was a good day for that.

He wrapped his most successful, precious rifle in chamois and then clear plastic. From a built-in drawer he got out a Colt .45 service automatic and a shoulder holster. The automatic was new to his collection. He hadn't had a chance to use it or even practice much. He harnessed on the holster, then made sure the Colt had a full clip of seven. He put two extra clips in his pocket. He got a poncho from a closet, regular war surplus poncho, rubberized with camouflage markings. Loose as it was, it easily concealed the Colt. At his dresser he used some Visine eye drops. Three drops for each eye, so his vision would be sharp. He also doused on some aftershave that had the word “Man” in its proper name. Then he took up the rifle and went out.

Minutes later he passed through the large iron gateway of Rancho Stevens. Driving down the devious canyon road, Warren felt good about what he intended to do. High on it. He didn't mind the rain now. In a way it had given him the idea. The more he thought about it the higher he got. This could be even better than the bear, he thought. A lot better.

Where the canyon road met the Coast Highway, Warren headed north until he came to the Seaside Supermarket. As he had expected, there was Lois's blue Mustang parked around the side. Lois wasn't in it. He parked far enough away, planning to wait and watch, like a good hunter stalking. But after only ten minutes impatience got to him. He endured another five before deciding not to just sit there. Anyway, it wouldn't hurt to go in and reconnoiter his target.

All at once they started going up on the third straight day of rain
—
perhaps reacting to an instinctual alarm
.

Up to higher ground
.

The largest of the rattlesnakes were three feet long and about six inches around at the neck. Some were only a week or two old, no longer than worms. There had always been rattlers in that canyon and most of the other canyons of the Santa Monica Mountains that ran all the way from the ocean to Hollywood. Although most of the areas, such as Benedict and Beverly Glen and Coldwater, were fairly built up and considered choice, much of the terrain remained dry, scrubby-brushed, rubbled with crumbly, stratified rocks the color of rust and glinting with mica. Good for snakes
.

They lived in all kinds of animal holes or in naturally formed recesses
.

They abandoned those
.

They went up, sinuously wound their way, using the broad scales on their bellies and their long, flexible muscles. There were thousands of rattlers within that area. Many, the very old and very young, did not make it to the top. The rain got them. But those that did make it found dry sanctuary within the foundations of houses
.