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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 .
    Acceptable enough places. Except for the nearly constant human and other sounds that were especially disturbing to the rattlers, who were all ears, so to speak. The entire length of their bodies was extremely sensitive to vibrations — their hearing mechanism .
    Also, there wouldn’t be enough to eat, only spiders and crickets and such, and any mice unfortunate enough to come sneaking along. Hunger was not a critical problem, however, for the rattlers were cold-blooded and with their low metabolic rate could get along on almost no food. Forty times better than man to be precise. And no wasted energy .
    They remained absolutely still at night for warmth,