We had stopped at the end of the pier where the rear of the partially submerged submarine was in plain view. Anchored no more than twenty feet from it was the dark green aluminum johnboat with its long black hose leading from the compressor, which was nestled in an inner tube on the passenger's side. The floor of the boat was scattered with tools, scuba equipment and other objects that I suspected had been rather carelessly gone through by someone. My chest tightened, for I was angrier than I would show.

"He probably just drowned," Green was saying. "Almost every diving death I've seen was a drowning. You die in water as shallow as this, that's what it's going to be."

"I certainly find his equipment unusual." I ignored his medical pontifications.

He stared at the johnboat barely stirred by the current.

"A hookah. Yeah, it's unusual for around here."

"Was it running when the boat was found?"

"Out of gas."

"What can you tell me about it? Homemade?"

"Commercial," he said. "A five-horsepower gasoline driven compressor that draws in surface air through a lowpressure hose connected to a second-stage regulator. He could have stayed down four, five hours. As long as his fuel lasted." He continued to stare off.

"Four or five hours? For what?" I looked at him. "I can understand that if you're collecting lobsters or abalone.

He was silent.

"What is down there?" I said. "And don't tell me Civil War artifacts because we both know you're not going to find those here."

"In truth, not a damn thing's down there."

"Well," I said, "he thought something was."

"Unfortunately for him, he thought wrong. Look at those clouds moving in. We're definitely going to get it." He flipped his coat collar up around his ears. "I assume you're a certified diver."