Under the Bridge

Geoffrey Knight

Published by Storm Moon Press LLC at

Smashwords

Copyright © 2012, Geoffrey Knight. All rights

reserved.

Adapted by Geoffrey Knight from his short story

'Troll' written under the pen name Sam Cross

Publisher's Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal

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Publishing History

Dare Empire eMedia Productions / 2012
Storm Moon Press / 2012

Cover art by Dare Empire eMedia Productions

ISBN-13: 978-1-937058-12-8
ISBN-10: 1-937058-12-3

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

About the Author

Chapter I

"Are you sure you wanna do this? You don't have

to do this."

Dylan looked out the passenger window of the

police car driven by his lover of ten years, the town's
Chief of Police, and in that precise moment—as he
stared into the passing night, seeing nothing but the
mist-choked darkness—he changed his mind.

No, he wasn't sure at all.
For fuck's sake, he was terrified.
He was sick with fear.
Sick with fear and the memories that had haunted

him for a decade.

Unwanted.
Unwelcome.
Which was exactly why he was here.
Suddenly the police radio crackled loudly: a static

crash of thunder so startling it made Dylan jolt in his
seat. The voice of Mitch's deputy, Hilary, blared from
the two-way, distorted and garbled.

"Chief? Are you there?"
Mitch pretended he hadn't caught sight of Dylan's

nervous reaction out of the corner of his eye. Mitch
was doing his damnedest to keep Dylan calm, to
ease his fears, yet at the same time he desperately
wanted to grab Dylan and tell him this trip, this night,
this damn foggy night, wasn't necessary. Screw the
shrink. Screw what he thought was right or wrong,
what might help and what might not. In Mitch's eyes,
Dylan had already overcome the past. He had buried
those demons long ago. Mitch wanted to tell Dylan
that he was a strong, confident man with a loving
partner.

But he didn't say a word.
Dylan seemed so determined to do this that Mitch

was scared it might push his lover even further away
from him.

Mitch snatched up the two-way. "Copy that, Hilary.

What's up?"

"Just checkin' you two are okay."
That was Hilary for you. The fifty-two-year-old

deputy was a mother hen to Mitch and Dylan, much
to Mitch's constant annoyance. She was a single
woman who lived alone with two dogs, and filled in
her own loneliness by doting over them. Although
Mitch and Dylan had never announced their

relationship to the angry little town, Hilary was the
only one who treated them as a couple. She baked
cakes and casseroles for them on her days off, as
though Mitch and Dylan were incapable of looking
after themselves. She defended them from town
gossips who made the occasional snide remark at
the local supermarket about Chief Shaw and

that

boy. And she always knew when Mitch and Dylan
had been fighting—and always asked if she could
help—which only added to the tension that Mitch
tried so hard to suppress.

Mitch sighed now and the frustration in his voice

was evident. "Yes, Hilary. We're okay. We'll be back
in town in twenty minutes. Call me if there's any
emergencies.

Only

if there's an emergency."

"But there ain't never any emergencies in Twin

Rivers, Chief. At least not since..." Her voice trailed
off awkwardly. "You know what I mean..."

"Hilary, we're fine. Over and out."
Mitch slammed down the two-way and kept

driving.

"She's just worried about us, that's all," Dylan said

by way of something—an explanation, an apology, a

way of easing his own mind a little.

"I know," Mitch said and placed his hand on

Dylan's knee.

Dylan flinched again.
Mitch took his hand away and kept steering

through the fog.

They both knew the old footbridge wasn't far now.

Chapter II

Dylan Sanders was eighteen years old when it

happened. In a month, he would turn twenty-eight.
For almost ten years now he had spent countless
sleepless hours trying to weave together the threads
of that terrible night with help from his therapist, the
evidence presented in court, and the eye-witness
accounts of a young Deputy Chief Mitchell Shaw in
the days and months that followed the murder.
Throughout the trial of the killer—through the
mayhem and madness and the media circus
surrounding the man with the headline-grabbing
nickname ‘the Troll'—Mitch was the one person
Dylan could lean on, the only one who understood
him. In the stress and chaos of the case, Dylan's
parents became strangers to him in their efforts to try
to gloss over his experience, to wash away his tears
with a positive, Christian attitude, to hide their own
sense of helplessness and keep a brave face in front
of their neighbors. Dylan's friends also drifted away,
silently holding him responsible for Kayne's death,
their eyes asking the question he had asked himself

a million times over:

Why Kayne?
Why not Dylan?
Why should one young man die at the hands of a

serial killer—

—while the other walked away with barely a

bruise?

No matter how many sleepless nights, how many

questions, that fact of the matter was Kayne
Kellerman—the star quarterback, this small town's
hero—was dead.

And Dylan Sanders—Kayne's best friend, just

your average small town guy—wasn't.

But if the questions and the looks of blame

weren't enough, it was the shame of the
circumstances leading up to the murder that drove
everyone from Dylan's life.

As the trial was coming to a head, Dylan was put

on the stand as the defense lawyer pried open Dylan
and Kayne's secret for all the world to judge.

"Is it not true, Mr. Sanders, that on the night in

question, you and Mr. Kellerman were caught in the
middle of activities of an... intimate nature."

Dylan froze on the stand as the first murmur of

shock swept the courtroom. His own defenses
kicked in. "I don't know what that's got to do with—"

"Just answer the question, Mr. Sanders."
Dylan paused and swallowed hard. "We... we

were drunk, we—"

"Isn't it true, Mr. Sanders, that during the party at

the Fletcher household, you and Mr. Kellerman were
caught kissing in the bathroom? After which you
promptly left the house together."

Amid the gasps in the courtroom, someone

started crying. Dylan looked up to see Mrs.
Kellerman trying to cover her tears with a tissue.
Beside her, Mr. Kellerman glared angrily at Dylan.

"We are waiting for your answer, Mr. Sanders."
"Yes," Dylan blurted, humiliated and angry, his

heart breaking for Kayne and his parents. He was no
longer the one who survived. Now he was the young
man who shamed Kayne Kellerman and tainted his
name forever.

"Isn't it possible, then, that the two of you may

have had a lover's tiff on the way home and in a fit of
rage, you murdered Mr. Kellerman in cold blood and
blamed the crime on an innocent vagabond who was
unlucky enough to witness your cold-blooded—"

"Objection,

your

Honor!"

the

prosecutor

interrupted. "We've already heard testimony from
Deputy Chief Mitchell Shaw who saw the accused
commit the crime. Is the defense now questioning
the evidence of a police officer?"

"Sustained," the judge declared.
But the defense attorney had already succeeded

in destroying Dylan's credibility and sending his
world crashing down around him. "Nothing further,
your Honor," he smiled at Dylan. "The defense
rests."

Outside the courthouse, it was Deputy Chief Mitch

Shaw who hurried Dylan to his waiting police car as
the wave of shock and disgust swept through the
crowd of spectators. Just before they reached the
vehicle, a woman called out from behind them.

"Dylan Sanders. You turn around. You turn around

and look at me."

Mitch and Dylan stopped. The crowd fell silent.

Slowly Dylan turned to see Kayne's mother walking
steadily up to him, her face red with rage, her eyes
bloodshot with tears.

"You look me in the eye and tell me it's not true,"

she demanded, her voice trembling. "Tell me my son

she demanded, her voice trembling. "Tell me my son
had nothing to do with this. You tell me it's not true,
and let my dead son rest with dignity!"

Dylan said nothing. Nothing except, "I'm sorry,

Mrs. Kell—"

Before he could finish his sentence Mrs.

Kellerman slapped Dylan as hard as she could
across the face.

Mitch stepped in quickly. "Mrs. Kellerman,

please."

"Don't," she hissed. "Don't you say a word, Mitch.

Arrest me for assault if you want, but don't stop me
from saying what I have to say."

Dylan tried to speak, timidly. "Mrs. Kellerman, I—"
"Shut up!" She said, gritting her teeth so hard

Dylan could hear them grinding. "I let you be my
son's friend. I let you sleep over. I let you eat under
our roof. And all you did was let him die." She spat at
Dylan's feet. "I wish it was you. My only wish is that it
had've been you."

All Dylan could say was, "Me, too."
Mitch pulled Dylan toward the car and opened the

back door. He eased Dylan inside, and then climbed
in behind the wheel and locked the doors. As the car

pulled away, Mrs. Kellerman hammered on Dylan's
window before breaking down completely.

"I want my son back! I want my son back!"

Chapter III

It was late summer when it happened. Downstairs

at the Fletcher house, Amy's party was in full swing,
with music blasting and kegs of beer being rolled
into the kitchen. Upstairs, Kayne had pulled a willing
Dylan into the bathroom but forgot to lock the door.
When Amy burst in on them, Kayne and Dylan
apologized and made a swift departure. They almost
made it out the front door before the town's new
deputy dropped in to introduce himself and give
everyone at the party a friendly lecture on drinking
responsibly and getting home safe.

He caught sight of Kayne and Dylan just before

the two escaped out through a side door to the
house.

Outside, the night was cool; the kind of night that

catches you unprepared. As soon as the sunlight
had faded that day, the temperature had dropped,
and now a soupy mist thickened over the river trail.

Situated on the edge of town, Forkes Bridge was

old and decrepit, one of the first bridges built to
cross Carson's River half a mile before it met with

the Manning River downstream, before the two rivers
merged in the middle of town. The teenagers of Twin
Rivers still crossed the rickety old bridge as a
shortcut to the new estate on the other side of the
river, but apart from that everyone now used the four-
lane Carson's Bridge that had been constructed ten
years earlier.

Forkes Bridge was nothing but a ramshackle relic

these days.

After escaping the party, Kayne and Dylan

navigated their way along the river trail. But before
they reached the old bridge, Kayne pushed Dylan
against a tree and planted his sweet whiskey lips on
Dylan's, drunkenly laughing as he did so.

"Shit, Kayne," Dylan slurred through the

smothering kiss. "We just got our asses busted back
there. Are you sure you wanna do this?"

Kayne slid his hands down the front of Dylan's

shirt and began fumbling with Dylan's belt buckle.
"Sure I'm sure. So Amy caught us kissing. Who the
fuck cares? She won't tell anyone. Hell, it'll probably
give her something to dream about, the school jock
and his best friend getting it on. Sounds pretty hot to
me."

Kayne managed to unfasten Dylan's belt and

jeans before pulling down the zipper. The bulge in
Dylan's briefs throbbed. Kayne grinned and grabbed
Dylan's crotch, taking it in his hand and squeezing it
hard.

Dylan's groan was stifled by another kiss from

Kayne, deeper and more passionate than the first.

Dylan grabbed at Kayne's t-shirt and clumsily

lifted it up over his head, breaking the kiss for only a
second before tossing the t-shirt on the ground.

In the cold night air the nipples on Kayne's large,

footballer's chest were hard and surrounding by
gooseflesh.

Dylan dropped out of the kiss and took one of

those stiff buds in his warm mouth, sucking and
biting on it. This time, Kayne let out a groan which
merged into a drunken laugh. "Fuck, that feels good.
Jesus Christ, I've wanted this for so long."

"Me, too," Dylan mumbled, sliding his tongue

across Kayne's chest to nibble on his other nipple.

At the same time, Kayne shoved his hand inside

Dylan's briefs, his fingers sliding through Dylan's
pubic hair to wrap themselves around the hard shaft
of his thick, young cock. He pulled it out of Dylan's

briefs, nudging the elastic waistband down under
Dylan's ripe balls, pushing them and his dick
forward.

That's when Kayne suddenly dropped to his

knees.

With one hand he began unbuckling and

unzipping his own jeans, while his other hand took
hold of Dylan's shaft. He wrapped his lips around the
bulbous head of Dylan's cock, his eyes closing in
bliss as he sipped on Dylan's pre-come, before
sliding Dylan's dick all the way into his wet, hungry
mouth.

While Dylan moaned even louder, Kayne

managed to pull his own cock out of his jeans—hard
and hung—and, like the jock he was, started jerking
on it as hard as he could.

It took only a few minutes for them to come.
They were both young, their hard bodies raging

with testosterone and adrenaline and desire. More
than that, they had both yearned for this moment
longer than either of them was brave enough to
admit.

With a cry so loud it echoed across the river,

Dylan felt his balls erupt, shooting one, two, three

Dylan felt his balls erupt, shooting one, two, three
loads of come into Kayne's mouth.

As Kayne gulped down the hot, sweet fluid of his

best friend, he pumped his own cock as hard as he
could, firing several shots of come between Dylan's
legs. The first three swirls hit the trunk of the tree, the
fourth looped against the inside thigh of Dylan's
jeans and stuck there.

Dylan grinned, panting steam into the night air, as

Kayne let his friend's cock slide from his lips and
rose back to his feet.

"I finally know," Kayne said, himself panting and

smiling.

"Know what?" Dylan asked.
"How good you taste." Kayne leaned in for a kiss.

A long, tender, tantalizing kiss. He pressed himself
against Dylan, his strong body sandwiching Dylan
between Kayne and the trunk of the tree, their hot,
spent cocks rubbing against one another. "God, I'm
already horny again," Kayne whispered, his dick
hardening once more.

"Save yourself, Romeo," Dylan smiled. "Let's do it

again tomorrow, but properly. My parents are
heading out of town for a few days. Come over. Let's

fuck in my bed, then shower together afterward."

"Are you trying to make me even harder? Cause

it's working."

"Then you're just gonna have to walk home with a

hard-on. Don't worry," Dylan said with a kiss, "you
won't be the only one."

As Kayne pushed himself off Dylan, he took his

friend and lover and helped him away from the trunk
of the tree. Kayne tucked Dylan's stiffened cock into
his jeans for him, getting one last feel before
cautiously zipping the jeans over his bulge. He then
tucked himself in, his erection impossible to hide in
his jeans, before grabbing his wet t-shirt off the dewy
grass and slipping it back on.

Suddenly he stopped, his t-shirt only halfway down

his torso, and tilted his head. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"
Kayne didn't answer. He was turning his head like

radar, listening for—

"There, hear it?"
Dylan shook his head and whispered, "All I can

hear is a frog on the other side of the river."

"Oh, is that what it is?" Kayne started smirking. "I

thought it was you, my Prince Charming, turning into

a frog. I know how to stop that."

As he laughed he pulled Dylan in for another kiss.
"You're so fuckin' corny," Dylan mumbled through

his lips.

"I can't help it," Kayne shrugged. "I think I might be

in love."

Dylan pulled right out of the kiss to look Kayne in

the eye, his lips curled in a smile. "You are?"

Kayne simply nodded.
Dylan grinned. "Me, too."
"Someday we'll leave this place, you know. Just

you and me. We'll just get in a car and say goodbye
to this stupid little town forever. We could live
anywhere we want. Where would you like to go?"

"The sea." Dylan was still grinning. "I've always

wanted to live by the sea."

Suddenly, the frog across the river stopped

croaking.

An eerie silence settled over the fog and chilled

their drunken, honest moment. The two young men
caught each other glancing uncomfortably at the dark
and silence surrounding them. Dylan took Kayne's
hand and nodded toward the lamplights of the bridge
ahead. "Come on, let's get home."

The first twenty feet of the bridge spanned the

mist-shrouded flat of the riverbank before actually
crossing water.

Kayne and Dylan didn't make it that far.
The bridge was narrow, its boards bent and

buckled and in some places missing altogether. The
boys had crossed the bridge countless times over
the years, and normally their feet knew exactly where
to tread. But tonight, with the alcohol, with their
heads still spinning and their hearts still pounding
and the adrenalin of their exchange still pumping
through them, the two had to tread more carefully,
more slowly than usual.

As they reached the start of the bridge, Dylan

went ahead, Kayne following behind, sliding his hand
into the back pocket of Dylan's jeans to pinch his ass
through the denim.

Dylan smiled, enjoying Kayne's touch, his sense

of intimacy, for the first time ever. He led Kayne
forward, stepping carefully across the creaking
planks under the fog-covered glaze of the first
lamplight.

From behind, Kayne said, "Hey, have you heard

about that guy?"

about that guy?"

Creak.
Creak.
Creak.

"What guy?"
"The one who killed those two college students.

One in Tennessee, and then the other one in
Virginia."

"I don't know what you're talking about, and you

know what? Right now I really don't wanna know."

"Both times it happened at a bridge," Kayne

continued. "On a foggy night. They call him the Troll
because he hides beneath the bridge and waits for
—"

"Kayne, shut up! It's cold, I wanna get home, and if

you're trying to scare me, it's not working!" Dylan
watched his lies puff in front of him in misty breaths.
The truth was, Kayne's story did send a chill down
Dylan's spine. He kept his gaze dead ahead, staring
into the darkness, knowing in another minute they'd
be safe on the other side.

Knowing that with Kayne behind him, they'd both

be safe.

"You're not scared, are you?" Kayne asked from

behind, giving a gentle tug on Dylan's back pocket.

Dylan could hear the smirk in Kayne's voice.
"No, of course not. I'm just... cold!"
"Bullshit. You're freaked out. Admit it!" Kayne

started laughing when suddenly an off-balance gasp
broke his laughter, followed by a drunken, "Oh, shit!"
He pulled his hand out of Dylan's back pocket.

"What is it now?" Dylan said, turning back.
Kayne was wavering, trying to steady himself with

wavering arms like a tightrope walker, while his legs
bowed awkwardly. "My fuckin' shoe. It's stuck."

Dylan looked down and through the dim lamplight

and shrouded shadows saw that Kayne's sneaker
was wedged between two wonky planks. Kayne
leaned down and started pulling at his ankle. "I'm
serious, man, it's really stuck!"

Dylan stepped toward Kayne, reaching out with

one hand to help, when suddenly—

SNAP

!!

It was the sound of planks breaking, wood being

torn about like a sharp belt of thunder.

With a jolt. Kayne's entire body dropped, his leg

being pulled down through the rotting planks up to
his knee. He shot a glance at Dylan, his eyes filled

with confusion, and then fear, and then suddenly—

CRAAAACCK

!

In a second, Kayne's body was yanked down

through the broken boards.

Dylan dived for him, grabbing desperately for his

best friend.

Frantically, Kayne fought against whatever was

trying to drag him down. The splintered boards
ripped at his t-shirt and tore into his stomach. He
didn't care; all that mattered was getting back onto
the bridge and escaping from whatever had his leg.

Both

legs now.

Kayne's nails shredded curls from the dilapidated

bridge as he tried to claw his way back.

Dylan wrapped his arms as tight as he could

around Kayne.

"I'm not letting you go," he panted fearfully.
And he didn't.
With a violent yank, Kayne was pulled down

through hole, under the bridge, with Dylan still
clinging to him all the way.

They crashed onto the bank of the river in the dark

and the fog.

They hit the ground hard, Dylan's skull smashing

into Kayne's.

That's when everything went black.
That's when the man who saved Dylan's life

arrived.

Chapter IV

Mitch pulled the car to a halt. The fog floated

through the headlights like a passing parade of
ghosts. Dylan peered through the windshield,
beyond the mist-filled beams of the headlights, to the
old footbridge ahead of them.

The three lamplights still burned, but they lit a

structure that was more dilapidated than even Dylan
imagined, overgrown now with ivy, covered in moss
and barely standing.

"I don't want to say it again but—"
"Then don't," Dylan cut Mitch off before he could

finish. "Please, I need to do this."

He knew how much it frustrated Mitch. That over

the years Mitch never really had Dylan all to himself.
This place—that night—was always with him. This
was exactly the reason they were here now, to put it
all to rest. To put Kayne to rest. To cross that bridge.
So that Dylan could once and for all be Mitch's lover
and his alone.

Dylan was doing this not only for himself, but for

Mitch as well, because he loved him.

Likewise, Mitch was allowing Dylan to go through

with this because he wanted Dylan all to himself,
finally. He wanted a man who loved him for who he
was, not someone he had to share with a killer called
‘the Troll'.

Mitch cut the engine.
Together, he and Dylan sat in the car until their

breath steamed up the windshield, adding fog to fog,
and they could no longer see the bridge at all. That's
when Dylan popped open the car door, and the
sound of it seemed so loud they both jumped.

Dylan set one foot out into the darkness, then the

other, and the frosted grass crunched beneath his
shoes.

"Please stay here," he said to Mitch, not looking

at him.

"I'm coming with you."
"No. Please, just stay here and wait for me. I need

to do this alone."

Dylan quickly pulled himself out of the squad car.

He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.
Christ, he had to get this over and done with. For
God's sake, all he wanted was a normal life. All he
wanted was his life back. Was that too much to ask?

Determinedly, he began to stride across the

grass and overgrown thickets that now covered the
river trail, heading toward the bridge.

He reached one hand toward the railing.
Across the river he heard the throaty croak of a

frog.

He looked ahead along the decrepit boards of the

bridge and his eyes fell upon the gaping hole through
which Kayne and he had been dragged all those
years ago—never repaired, like a ghostly warning to
all,

Do Not Cross

—its sharp splintered edges now

soft and green and blunt and rotting.

Dylan's fingers touched the cold, slimy railing.
His lungs pushed out a pillow of terrified steam.
Behind him, Mitch shouted.
"

Dylan! Wait!

"

Dylan froze.
As did his wet, shivering foot, suspended above

the planks, yet to take that first step onto the bridge.

At the same time, the frog across the river fell

silent.

It stopped croaking altogether.
It simply sat there—

—in the dark
—and the cold
—and listened in fear.

Chapter V

Dylan put down his fork and gathered his

courage. "Mitch, I wanna leave here."

It was nine years after the murder trial.
Mitch paused over his chicken, took a mouthful,

and then set his own fork down. "And go where?"

After Dylan's parents had kicked him out of their

Christian home, Mitch had taken the young man in
and offered him a room. He gave Dylan his space.
He offered him support and protection. And one
night, while they both sat and watched the Friday
night game, Mitch had gently laid his hand on Dylan's
knee.

A single tear streaked down Dylan's face.
After which he leaned over and kissed Mitch on

the lips.

All the while trying to push away the thought of

Kayne's smiling face.

That was the first night they made love; it was the

night Dylan moved into Mitch's bedroom. And
although Mitch held Dylan tight in his arms, although

he kept him safe and promised to keep him from
harm always, it was never a love that dared to
venture beyond the refuge of their bedroom, their
house, their well-secured front door.

"You haven't answered my question," Mitch said,

the chicken on his plate going cold. "Why would you
wanna leave here? Where would you go?"

"I thought maybe...

we

could go. Together."

"You said

you

wanted to go. What if I don't want

to?"

Dylan picked timidly at his food with his fork.

"Forget it. It's nothing." He thought about his trip to
the supermarket that afternoon. About seeing the
school's high school coach—Kayne's coach—in the
frozen goods aisle. They had both looked up at the
same moment and caught each other's eye.

Shame instantly crossed Dylan's face.
Hatred crossed Coach Mathison's.
As the coach walked past Dylan he slammed his

fist down on the corner of Dylan's shopping basket,
slapping it out of his hands. As the contents spilled
across the floor, Coach Mathison muttered from his
snarled lips, "Good for nothin' faggot!"

snarled lips, "Good for nothin' faggot!"

Dylan had dropped to his knees to grab his

plastic-wrapped chicken, which was sliding across
the floor of the supermarket.

He plucked up a piece of that roast chicken on his

fork now but was no longer hungry. He left it on his
plate as Mitch pressed, "No really. I'd like to know.
Where exactly would you go? Because wherever it
is, I'm not going with you. Dylan, I have a good job
here. I provide for you. I protect you. The people of
this town, they respect me."

"Well they don't respect me."
Mitch threw his fork down with a clang. "Well

maybe you need to try a little harder."

"Or maybe I...

we

... need to go!"

"Where!"
"I don't know! The sea. I've always wanted to live

by the sea. Can't we just pack our bags and say
goodbye to this place forever? I hate it here. The
memories are—"

"—just that! They're memories, Dylan! It's water

under the fucking bridge! You have to learn to let it
go!"

"What if I can't?"

Mitch took a deep breath. "Then you're gonna

have to let me go."

Chapter VI

The bearded vagabond blinked at the flash of the

cameras, blinded and angry. He cowered at the
pushing crowd and growled at the reporters who
shoved too close. Yes, his long hair had been
combed back for the first time in decades, and the
beard, for so long unkempt, had been trimmed into a
neater nest. But his eyes were still those of a man
who had lived day to day; begging, scrounging for
one meal at a time, all his life. They were the eyes of
a man who detested the world, who lived by his own
rules. His own law.

His name was Noah Washington.
But with every flash of a photographer's camera,

with every headline, every gruesome article, he
became known to the world as ‘the Troll'.

A 50-year-old drifter.
A killer.
A monster.
Once the decades of dirt and grime had been

washed from his fingers, his prints were an exact
match to those found on the knife that had been

plunged into Kayne Kellerman's chest.

It was the same weapon that had been used to

stab and mutilate college student Lance Huxley
under the Wentworth River Bridge in Tennessee; the
same weapon that had been used with so much
force to slash the throat of high school graduate
Robbie Bennett beneath Hallows Bridge in Virginia,
where the victim was almost beheaded.

But after the murder of Kayne Kellerman and the

attempted murder of Dylan Sanders in Twin Rivers,
Noah Washington was captured by police. The facts
of that fateful night under Forkes Bridge were pieced
together for the court:

Washington was already lurking on the riverbank

under the bridge, waiting for an unlucky male to
cross.

As Dylan Sanders made his way first across the

bridge, Washington hid in the dark below, watching
up through the cracks and gaps in the planks.

He was about to claim Mr. Sanders when Kayne

Kellerman's sneaker became stuck between two
boards.

Washington seized the opportunity, breaking

through the decrepit planks and dragging Mr.

Kellerman under the bridge.

When Mr. Sanders attempted to save his friend,

he, too, was dragged down into the darkness where
he hit his head and fell unconscious.

Washington stabbed Kayne Kellerman three

times in the chest, killing him instantly.

As he advanced on Mr. Sanders, however, his

attack was disrupted by the Deputy Chief of Police,
Mitchell Shaw. The Deputy knew that a party was
taking place that night. Earlier in the evening, he had
introduced himself to the teenagers at the party and
told them all to get home safely. Soon after, he
noticed the two young men walking home via the
river trail. As they crossed Forkes Bridge, he saw
the commotion and ran to help. A struggle ensued.
Deputy Shaw managed to prevent the murder of
Dylan Sanders before the accused fled into the
forest. The deputy pursued the attacker but was
unable to find the killer. In the meantime, Dylan
Sanders regained consciousness and ran for help,
raising the alarm from a nearby house.

The following day, Washington was found by

police, his clothes covered in the blood of Kayne
Kellerman, the murder weapon in his possession.

Noah Washington was found guilty by a jury of his

peers and sentenced to twenty-one years in prison
with the possibility of parole after one decade, a
lenient sentence based purely on the lack of
evidence in the murder cases of Lance Huxley and
Robbie Bennett. For although residents in
Tennessee and Virginia reported seeing a
homeless man in the vicinity of the crimes fitting a
description of Washington—long unwashed hair,
scruffy beard, a torn and stained blanket over his
shoulder, walking slumped and silent, through the
streets—there was no hard evidence linking him to
the crimes, apart from the public's need to make
someone pay for the murders.

Washington never confessed to his crimes.

Throughout the entire investigation and trial, the
accused said absolutely nothing. Not a word, not a
sound, not an utterance—except his name.

He refused to answer any questions. He would not

comply with police. He sat silent in every interview.
He gave his defense attorney no information, nothing
that would absolve him of the murders.

In the murder trial of Kayne Kellerman, the jury

took three minutes to reach their verdict.

took three minutes to reach their verdict.

Washington was locked away.
After almost ten years in prison, he was released

on parole on the condition his location be monitored
at all times.

On the day Noah Washington was released,

authorities clamped a tracking device to his ankle.

That day—
—was today.

Chapter VII

Dylan's foot hovered over the planks of the bridge.
Behind him Mitch called his name once more.

"Dylan, wait! I'm coming with you!"

Dylan didn't respond. And he did not wait.
For their entire relationship Dylan had let Mitch

look after him. Mitch had insisted on it. He was good
at taking control, good at making decisions.

But not tonight.
Tonight Dylan had to make his own choices, take

control of his own life, and prove to himself that the
past

was

the past.

He ignored Mitch.
His left shoe touched down on the cold, slippery

boards of the old bridge.

Then his right.
The soles of his shoes slid a little on the moss,

and then suddenly, Mitch's hand grabbed his right
arm. Dylan gasped, his feet pirouetting on the slime.
For a second, he almost lost his balance altogether,
and then Mitch had him in both arms.

"Jesus, Dylan. This bridge is dangerous. I said

wait."

"I have to do this. On my own." As he pulled away

from Mitch, he slipped again. Right foot. Left foot.
Sliding on the moss. He was gliding further and
further out onto the bridge.

Mitch reached for him, but his fingertips brushed

against the sleeve of Dylan's jacket and missed.

Suddenly—
—"

Chief! Chief! Are you there? Over!

"

It was the static-filled sound of Hilary's voice

carrying through the fog from the passenger door
which Dylan had left open.

"Jesus, Hilary, not now!" Mitch breathed through

gritted teeth.

But Hilary was persistent.
"

Chief! Pick up! Please pick up!

"

Mitch turned to Dylan. "Don't move! Stay where

you are. I'll be right back."

Mitch ran back to the squad car, the fog now

rolling and tumbling fast across the beams of the
headlights as the wind began to pick up. Dylan
watched him dash through the veil of mist, toward the
static that beckoned him.

Defiantly, Dylan turned back to the bridge.

Defiantly, Dylan turned back to the bridge.
He eyed the hole where he and Kayne had

vanished.

The hole from which he had returned, alone.
The sole of his shoe squeaked on the moss as

his left foot took another step.

He stepped closer still toward the edge of the

large, splintered hole.

He stared into the darkness beneath. "There's

nothing there," he whispered to himself.

Behind him, Mitch slid and fell on the frosty grass

as Hilary's harsh, radio-crackled voice continued to
call out to him. "

Chief! Chief!

"

Mitch slid to the open passenger door on his

knees and reached across the seat for the radio
receiver, muttering to himself, "Dammit, Hilary! I said
only call in case of an—"

But he fell silent at Hilary's panicked words.
"

Chief. It's Noah Washington. He's broken

parole. They just tracked him.

"

Mitch grabbed at the receiver. "What the fuck!

Tracked him where?"

Hilary was silent a second, and then through the

static said, "

Get out of there!

"

Mitch dropped the receiver.
His face turned in horror back to the bridge.
He reached for his gun—
—but it wasn't at his side.
Dylan didn't want him carrying it that night.
He thought he'd be asking for trouble, tempting

fate.

Mitch glanced over to see his holster and weapon

stashed on the floor, half-tucked under the driver's
seat. He lunged across the passenger seat, at the
same time shouting, "Dylan!"

But Dylan couldn't hear him.

Dylan's heart pounded even louder as he began

to kneel over the hole in the bridge.

The coldness, the wetness of the boards

drenched the knees of his jeans as soon as they
touched the groaning, rotting planks of the bridge.
The chill seeped into his flesh, crept into his bones.

His left palm touched against the boards on one

side of the hole, his right palm pressed against the
other, as he lowered his face over the hole. "There's
nothing there," he whispered, leaning low.

He heard Mitch screaming somewhere behind

him. "Dylan! Get off the bridge! Now!"

That's when he saw the reflection of the lamplight

above him—

—flickering in the bloodshot eye of someone

hiding in the dark below, gazing up at him.

Dylan gasped.
He tried to pull himself away.
But suddenly, the old, gnarled hand of the Troll

seized him by the wrist and pulled him under the
bridge with such force, he didn't have a chance.

His hands slid on the moss.
Several more rotted planks and boards snapped

and plunged into the darkness with him.

And suddenly Dylan's worst nightmare—
—was real again.
He hit the ground hard, a rock thudding into his

ribs. The wind was knocked out of him; he groaned
for air, but before he could move, he was yanked to
his feet. One large hand snatched him by the arm,
while another grabbed the base of his skull and
pulled it close to his attacker's face.

And there he was.
The man who killed Kayne.
The man who had destroyed his life.

The face from the mug shots and the newspapers

and the courtroom tapes.

Here he was again.
Just as Dylan was.
Returning to the one place they had in common.
The worst night of Dylan's life.
And the worst night of Noah Washington's, too.
Dylan struggled hard, but before he could pull

away, Noah Washington clamped his hand over
Dylan's mouth and spoke.

He spoke for the first time in ten years.
"It wasn't me!"
But Dylan wasn't listening.
He was fighting to get away.
With his free hand, he hit at Noah Washington.
He scratched his face.
He pulled away, the man's blood under his nails,

and shouted at the top his lungs, "Mitch!"

But Noah Washington seized Dylan even harder,

pulled him even closer, and with his teeth as rotted
as the planks on the bridge, he said, "Listen to me! I
tried to stop it! I tried to save your friend! His blood
was all over me because I tried to save him!"

"Let me go!"

"Let me go!"
But the old man was still talking, still trying to tell

Dylan what he needed to hear. "I managed to get the
knife off him, I tried to stop him, but he ran into the
forest!"

Dylan didn't stop struggling as he stared into the

homeless man's desperate face. "What are you
talking about?

Who

are you talking about?"

Noah whispered gravely, "I'm talking about the

only other person who was there that night."

Dylan froze.
His mind reeling.
His head spinning.
His knees beginning to buckle.
He started to sink.
Noah Washington held him up by the neck and

wrist.

"Why didn't you do anything? I don't believe you.

You're just a homeless man."

Noah's weathered old face nodded, and said,

"That's why."

Suddenly, the crack of one, two, three bullets

shattered the night.

Noah Washington jolted, and Dylan jolted, too, as

the blood from Noah Washington's chest flecked
across his face and arms.

Dylan pulled away, slipped, collapsed to the

riverbank at the same time that Noah Washington's
body dropped to the ground, the ankle-bracelet
around his left ankle now visible with its flashing red
light blinking in the dark.

From above, Mitch leapt through the hole in the

bridge and landed on the riverbank.

His gun swept left to right and hovered over

Washington's body as he glanced at Dylan. "Are you
all right? Did he hurt you? Speak to me? Are you
hurt?"

"No, I'm okay," Dylan panted.
But he couldn't take his eyes off the body of Noah

Washington.

Or the gun in Mitch's hands.
Suddenly, Mitch reached for Dylan. "Give me your

hand. We're getting out of here now. I knew this was
a bad idea."

Dylan didn't move.
When he didn't feel the warmth of Dylan's palm in

his, Mitch turned and said, "Dylan, we need to go.
Give me your hand. It's over!"

But Dylan remained where he was and asked, "Is

it?"

Mitch looked at him. "What the fuck are you

talking about? Stop fucking around! A serial killer
just broke parole and tried to kill you. I need to report
this now!"

Dylan's fingers slid through the wet grass of the

riverbank. They found a plank, broken at one end.
"Are you sure?" he asked, the tears starting to
streak down his cheeks.

Mitch—always in control, always the one to make

the decisions—turned angrily. "Am I sure I need to
report this? Fucking yes! Now get up!"

Dylan shook his head. "No, that's not what I

meant." The tears spilled down his face even faster.
"Are you sure he's the one?"

Chief of Police Mitchell Shaw stood there for a

long moment, as the river burbled by and the red
flashing light of Noah Washington's ankle bracelet
blinked on the muddy banks; as his lover sat on the
grass trembling and panting with silent tears running
down his cheeks.

And without a second's hesitation, Mitch turned

his gun on Dylan. "What did he tell you?"

Dylan took in a breath, not nervous or terrified, but

angry. For the first time in ten years, he was angry.
"What does it matter?" he breathed. "He was right,
wasn't he?"

Mitch cocked the hammer on his pistol, his own

tears beginning to streak down his face, his own
voice starting to tremble. "You don't get it, do you?
All I wanted was someone to love me. Someone to
possess. I tried. In Tennessee. In Virginia. And then
came you. You really...

needed

me. For the first time

in my life someone

needed

me. Finally, I had what I

wanted. Someone in my arms at night, instead of
someone to kill to try to make up for what I could
never find. Love.

True

love. But now you've gone and

fucked it all up!"

With a sudden lunge, he grabbed Dylan by the

jacket and hauled him to his feet.

Mitch didn't see that Dylan had hauled the plank of

wood with him, clutching it in his right hand.

"So now I need a new '

true

' story," Mitch snarled.

"Something everyone will believe... again."

He glanced up through the hole in the bridge

above. He looked back at the body of Noah

Washington. He sized up the angles, and then
twisted his lover in front of him, held his gun high and
pointed it down into Dylan's back.

He pushed Dylan down onto his knees.
Dylan's vision turned to shattered glass with the

flood of tears. But his fist gripped the plank even
tighter.

Behind him, Mitch shrugged innocently. "I was

simply trying to save you. I was trying to fend off the
killer. How was I to know you would step in the way?"
He paused and whispered through a relieved smile,
"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to do
this over the years. All those times we had sex, I
knew you were thinking of

him

."

Mitch began to squeeze the trigger on his gun.
With one hand, Dylan wiped his cheeks dry, and

with the other he gripped the end of the broken plank
as tightly as he could. "You know what? You're right."

With that, he stood and spun about as fast as he

could.

Startled, Mitch fired off a shot into Dylan.
The bullet tore through his shoulder, but it wasn't

enough to stop Dylan from swinging the plank of
wood at the man who had killed his best friend.

In that moment of pain and panic and defiance,

Dylan hoped the plank might strike Mitch across the
head; he hoped it might be enough to knock him out.

But he was wrong.
Mitch pulled back at the last second.
The plank swung straight by his face.
It was the long, bent, rusted nail protruding from

the end of the plank that ended Dylan's nightmare
once and for all.

Like the jagged wheel of a can opener slicing

through tin, the nail savaged a zigzag trail across
Mitchell Shaw's throat as Dylan swung the plank.

Mitch fired off another bullet, this one splashing

harmlessly into the river. At the same time, he reeled
backward, blood cascading from the gash in his
throat. Eyes wide, he dropped the gun, both hands
clutching at his gushing wound. Blood spurted
through his fingers. For a moment, his eyes rolled
back in his head, blinked madly, and then settled on
Dylan in one last angry gaze.

That's when he staggered toward Dylan.
Dylan gasped and quickly stepped aside.
With four jolting, jarring, dying steps, Mitch

stumbled past him and splashed into the river, his

stumbled past him and splashed into the river, his
body plunging into the icy waters before slowly rising
to the surface and drifting away into the fog.

Panting, heaving, breathless, Dylan dropped the

plank, and then dropped to his knees on the
riverbank.

Muddy.
Bloody.
Alive.

Chapter VIII

The seagulls cawed and glided sideways on the

wind.

The afternoon was cold, the beach deserted...

almost.

A young man sat alone on the dunes outside the

ramshackle house he'd just rented. There were
pigeons in the attic. There were windows that
needed fixing. And the rotting planks on the steps
leading from the porch to the dunes were dangerous
—

—but the young man had seen more dangerous

rotting boards than those.

"We made it, Kayne," he whispered to the wind.

"Just you and me."

He listened to the gulls caw.
He watched the waves break on the shore.
He gazed at the ocean so blue.
No end.
No bridges.
And the young man sitting alone on the dunes

smiled.

Because he knew he would never be alone again.

About the Author

From palace-hopping across the Rajasthan

Desert to sleeping in train stations in Bulgaria, from
spinning prayer wheels in Kathmandu to exploring
the skull-gated graveyards of the indigenous
Balinese tribes, Geoffrey Knight has been a traveler
ever since he could scrape together enough money
to buy a plane ticket. Born in Melbourne but raised
and educated in cities and towns across Australia,
Geoffrey was a nomadic boy who grew into a
nomadic gay writer. His books are the result of too
many matinee movies in small-town cinemas as a
child, reading too many Hardy Boys adventures, and
wandering penniless across too many borders in his
early adult life. He currently works in advertising and
lives in Paddington, Sydney. And can't wait to buy
his next plane ticket.

Other Works by Geoffrey Knight

The Cross of Sins

The Riddle of the Sands

The Curse of the Dragon God

Drive Shaft

Drive Shaft 2: Between a Rock and a Hard

Place

The Gentlemen's Parlor: Room of Chains

The Pearl Trilogy

An Empire of Broken Hearts

– Anthology for

Charity 2011