“Then we keep the flashlight pointed down,” I said.

We crossed the uneven dirt floor to the left-hand cabinet.

I grabbed the chrome handle and pulled it open, cracking a thick crust of dust that had sealed the latch.

The top shelf was crammed with plastic lure boxes, coils of yellow nylon rope and an old camcorder case lying next to a pair of cracked hip waders.

On the middle shelf sat a heavy metal tackle box with rusty brass corners.

“That’s his deep-water rig box,” I said, pointing at the metal case.