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swamp.
    Libby's father didn't want to upset Libby even more, so he didn't tell her what he'd learned. She'd find out soon enough-probably the minute she got to school the next day.
    Finally, around ten-thirty, Libby finally drifted off. Within half an hour her mother was out like a light, too. Bonnie Marshall owned a popular breakfast shop on Marco Island, and every morning she got up before dawn to make the long drive.
    Now it was Jason Marshall who couldn't fall asleep. He sat up in bed with a book open on his lap, but he wasn't reading. His thoughts were on Libby's teacher.
    Any half-intelligent person could survive a night in the Big Cypress. All you had to do was hunker down someplace dry and be still. Except for the bugs, nothing would bother you-at least no wild animals would.
    The worst thing was to panic and go thrashing off into the wilderness, which was a good way to get bitten by a water moccasin or gored by a wild pig or chased by a bear. Jason Marshall hoped that Libby's biology teacher had the common sense to remain calm and wait for help to arrive.
    It was well past midnight when Jason Marshall's eyelids grew heavy and he turned off the light. The next thing he knew, Bonnie was shaking him by the shoulders because their dog was barking furiously in the living room. The clock on the nightstand said 2:20 a.m.
    "Sam's going nuts," Bonnie told him. "You better go check on him."
    Sam was a black Labrador retriever. He was five years old and extremely mellow-he seldom barked at anything, even stray cats. Jason Marshall opened the drawer of the nightstand and took out his police revolver, which had a combination lock on the trigger.
    He pulled on his jeans and hurried to the living room, where Sam stood rigidly at the front door. The dog was growling, and the hair on his ruff bristled.
    "Easy, boy," Jason Marshall said, and popped the trigger lock off the pistol. The detective felt his heart hammering in his rib cage; he'd never seen Sam so intense.
    "Who's there?" he said through the door.
    No reply. Sam cocked his big black head and whined.
    "Who is it?" Jason Marshall demanded again.
    He heard nothing on the other side. Quietly he unbolted the door, Sam gazing up at him expectantly.
    "Sit," Jason Marshall said, and the dog sat.
    The detective's gun was in his right hand. He placed his left hand on the door, flung it open, raised the revolver, and stepped outside.
    Nobody was there. Sam followed Jason Marshall across the open porch and down the front steps. There the dog halted, lifted his quivering wet nose, and sniffed the night air.
    Nothing moved in the front yard, which was illuminated by a pale crescent moon. The crickets were chirping and the geckos were trilling, and everything seemed perfectly peaceful.
    "What'd you hear, boy?" Jason Marshall asked Sam, who began following an invisible trail down the walkway, toward the gate.
    Maybe it was a raccoon, thought the detective, or a possum.
    Whatever the intruder was, Sam seemed satisfied that he'd done his job and scared it away. Wagging his tail, he casually strolled off to relieve himself in Bonnie Marshall's prized vegetable garden.
    Jason Marshall tucked the revolver into his waistband and walked around the house to check the backyard. The dog quickly caught up and loped ahead playfully. When they returned to the front of the house, Sam bounded up the steps and began nosing intently around the porch.
    Bonnie Marshall peeked out the door. Libby, in her robe and fuzzy slippers, stood behind her.
    "Everything's fine. Dog must've heard a raccoon," Jason Marshall said. "Back to bed, scooter."
    "But Sam never barks," Libby said sleepily, "and I totally heard him barking."
    "Well, maybe it was a whole herd of raccoons," her mother said. "Now he's his sleepy old self again, so let's hit the sack. Momma's gotta be up early tomorrow."
    "Dad, how come you've got your gun out?"
    Jason Marshall glanced down at the grip of the pistol sticking up from his jeans. "In case