itsawhumpyroad

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 13: Dames and Diagnoses I: Montreal

The radio had been blaring for hours. Francis wasn’t in it for the tunes; he was straining to catch any clue about the boss’ whereabouts. Maybe the cops had thrown him behind bars, or he was lying stiff in some grimy back alley. For the moment, though, all the airwaves carried was just the weatherman’s voice, predicting a bone-chilling minimum of minus seven degrees for the next day and lows that could plummet twice as far. “Don’t let Jack Frost keep you indoors!” the weatherman declared cheerfully, as if inviting his neighbors to a garden party rather than bracing folks for a freeze. “Tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen, a sunny Sunday is on the cards. So, dust off your sleds and give your skates a good honing. You’re in for a treat with the slopes of Mont Tremblant or the ice at Parc du Mont-Royal!” The news anchor took over, reporting the final withdrawal of British and French troops from the Suez Canal in distant Egypt. The thought of a desert, let alone the sun, felt like a world away. The wipers battled the thick snowflakes plastering the glass—until they revealed a sudden burst of blue on the roadside. The sign was divided in two. On the left side, a bold white cross occupied the center, while each corner contained a white fleur-de-lis, a trio of stylized lily petals bound by a ribbon. The right half greeted in elegant white letters, “Bienvenue au Québec—Welcome to Quebec.”

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 12: Bad News (AO3)

Mrs. Gallagher’s eyes snapped open to meet the ceiling above, bathed in the warm, golden glow of her bedside lamp. A loud bang still echoed in her ears — too loud and too sharp to be the remnants of a dream.

A door slamming?

Perhaps it was Master Richie and Mr. Francis finally returning; Master Richie had assured her of their arrival at nine in the evening. But neither Mr. Francis nor Master Richie, reckless as the boy was, would cause such a commotion at that ungodly hour — unless, of course, the young Master was deep in his cups. The black hands of the clock on her nightstand crept towards half past two.

She had kept a lonely vigil for hours, straining her ears for any sign of the duo, but the night had worn on with no sign of their return. She had waited in the parlor, then paced the length of the mansion, dusting already spotless surfaces until the old grandfather clock struck midnight. Only then had she finally given up her post and retired to her bed. Yet, the gnawing worry kept sleep at bay. After tossing and turning, she had draped her black morning gown over her long rose nightgown and ventured into Master Boyle’s library to retrieve Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea”, hoping the fisherman’s tale would distract her troubled mind. The familiar book had eventually worked its magic and lulled her into a light slumber. Now, the book lay open across her comforter. But still, that noise bothered her.

Could it be Master Boyle himself, returning from his late-night endeavors?

She’d caught whispers at dinner of him and Monk putting an end to the gambling den at the Green Dragon tonight. But no, Master Boyle was never one to disturb the nightly peace of his household so thoughtlessly. Her thoughts circled back to Master Richie. Hadn’t he mentioned that he and Mr. Francis were going to check out that mysterious letterbox? The one she’d overheard Mr. Francis discussing with Master Boyle in hushed tones, only to fall silent the moment she entered the room?

Her brow furrowed as she strained to recall the details of their brief encounter just the night before…

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 11: Pit Stop IV - Boom at High Noon (AO3)

A sickening gust of wind swept across the steaming mounds of refuse, kicking up a rusted can that silently rolled beneath Gary’s Ford. Emerging from the shadows of the undercarriage, it spun to a halt just beyond Francis’ line of sight. He and Gary locked eyes over the hoods of their cars, each leveling his gun at the other. Another icy blast tugged at their clothes and tousled their hair beneath the brims of their hats.

“Oh, that windbag and his brat?” Francis ridiculed. “Your pals decided to take a little dirt nap in the woods,” he said, shrugging slightly, as if discussing nothing more than a mundane inconvenience rather than two lives snuffed out like candles in the wind. He chose not to bother with lies; the situation — William’s pickup truck, the moose — it was all too obvious. “Their ride was just sittin’ there,” he said, watching Gary’s face turning a deeper shade of red, “seemed a waste not to use—”

Gary didn’t waste time on words.

A deafening boom thundered from his pump gun, a plume of smoke trailing from the muzzle.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 10: Pit Stop III - Waltzing with Morpheus (AO3)

Francis’ transformation had begun swiftly. He’d fought alongside Mr. Boyle, Richie and Monk — proving himself through grit and skill. Mr. Boyle had no qualms about proclaiming him soon as his right-hand man. Gone were his rough, street-worn clothes; replaced by sleek, tailored suits and perfectly knotted ties.

He’d abandoned the dingy apartment where his father had met his end and where the moldy walls still carried the echoes of his mother’s dirty secrets. Mr. Boyle had offered him a room in his opulent mansion, a grand gesture of goodwill and trust. Yet Francis had politely declined, opting instead for a condo in a quiet suburb of Chicago. He’d valued his new family, but also his independence, and his own place provided a sense of privacy amidst the chaos of his new life.

However, Mr. Boyle had welcomed him at all times, inviting him to take full advantage of the mansion’s amenities as if they were his own. Francis had accepted this offer, finding himself occasionally lounging in one of their swimming pools, wrapped in a plush towel after a steamy session in the sauna, or savoring exquisite food crafted by Mr. Boyle’s personal chef Mr. Goldrick.

Inevitably, he had also caught glimpses of Richie’s erratic life: Girlfriends fluttered in and out of the mansion with alarming frequency. Some came for the glitz and the cash, exploiting his wealth for their own gain. Other relationships were genuine and intense and craved Richie’s affection. Their laughter would often ripple through the halls, and more than once Francis had awkwardly stumbled upon them together. But what all those relationships had in common was their brevity, each one plunging Richie into heartbreak that either catapulted him into the wild swirl of Chicago’s nightlife or further entrenched him in their underworld businesses.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 9: Pit Stop II - Whispers of the Past (AO3)

Two 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air in black and white appeared in the rearview mirror, their red lights flashing and sirens wailing. The officers behind the wheels were clearly determined to catch up, but Francis had other ideas.

He maneuvered the sluggish truck through the traffic, weaving in and out of the two lanes, trying to shake the cars that were hot on his tail. The snow chain clattered loose from the right front tire, its tangled metal links rattling against the chassis with each turn of the wheel. Suddenly, the black tarp on the back of the pickup truck came loose, flapping wildly in the wind. It flew off and sailed backwards, landing on the windshield of one of the pursuing cars. The police car skidded and veered sideways across the road as the officer slammed down the brakes.

But Francis’ respite was short-lived.

The other police car had picked up and sped alongside, its passenger window rolling down to reveal a stern-faced officer holding a megaphone. “Brantford Police!” the officer in his dark blue uniform bellowed, his voice amplified by the megaphone. “You are under arrest! Pull over now!”

“I don’t think so,” Francis muttered under his breath. He didn’t spare more than a brief glance at the officer, just long to assess the situation without giving away his face. The police car inched closer, its side mirror almost brushing the truck’s driver’s door as the other officer behind the wheel attempted to steer Francis off course.

But Francis wasn’t having it.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 8: Pit Stop I (AO3)

The towering pines began to thin out and gave way to vast fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. The gray sky hung heavy and a dull haze blurred the scenery that made it difficult to distinguish where the land ended and the sky began. Scattered farmhouses and bare trees dotted the countryside, breaking the bleak monotony of the white expanse. Every so often, the solitude of the open road was broken by passing cars, carrying dissolving trails of exhaust fumes.

Francis strained to check his watch. The condensed water had fogged the glass, but he could still make out the hands ticking away. It was 10:24 — an hour had passed since they left the forest and two bodies behind.

The occasional squeaking of the windshield wipers and the creaking of the truck’s suspension were no longer the only noises Francis heard as he drove along the bumpy country road.

Ever since their last stop, Richie had been moaning and shifting restlessly in the seat, wincing at every pothole they hit. The monstrosity that had once lain dormant beneath thick layers of permafrost and ice had fully thawed into its true hideous form, clawing its way through his guts in an attempt to escape its cage.

But it wasn’t just that. He was melting.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 7: Collateral Damage III (AO3)

The soft crunching of snow under heavy tires. A rumbling engine — a car.

It was now or never.

Francis bolted off, but stumbled on his knees. The snow was far too high and despite the whirling adrenaline pumping through his veins, the cold had long since taken hold of him. Breathing heavily, he straightened up and nearly tripped again, but forced his way through the snow and branches blocking his path.

Richie could only watch in frustration as his accomplice disappeared from view. “Francis, for fuck’s sake, wait!” he cursed, trying to push himself up onto his feet, but did not even manage to get off the ground.

“I’ll be back,” Francis called out over his shoulder, not stopping to look back at Richie. His legs, stiff from the cold, protested with every step, but he pushed on, using the trees for support. The engine grew louder, but Francis sensed he would never be able to intercept the car in time.

But he was wrong.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 6: Collateral Damage II (AO3)

All Richie wanted was a breath of fresh air.

Instead, the world turned upside down. Lake Erie swallowed him whole and whipped the air out of his lungs as he plunged into a forbidding abyss not made for his kind. A split second of weightlessness turned into a crushing cold he'd never felt before, not even on Chicago's crispest nights, and permeated his cotton clothes to his very pores. Death stunned and embraced him with open arms, eager to drag him deeper, indifferent to the unknown lurking in the darkness below.

Richie froze — until the cold shock coerced him to breathe greedily against his will. He fought it until he couldn't. The water shooting up his nose and gushing down his throat stung like barbed wire and flooded him with utter panic.

Disoriented, his eyes snapped open. The surface was above his feet, hellishly glistening crimson against the last falling flares, contrasting with the pancake-flat ice fragments scattered across the lake. His heavy, water-filled shoes thrashed into gelid nothingness when he rotated himself upright, unaware of Francis' coat which he had let go and slowly wafted upward.

The last minuscule bubbles of air trapped in his cheeks squeezed out between his lips as he propelled himself toward the surface; he reached for it, just an arm's length away — before a hand grabbed the back of his collar, pulling him back with a firm grip only one man could have.

Francis.

He knew it.

Francis would drown him like a kitten and make a run for it.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 5: Collateral Damage I (AO3)

Ominous and shrouded in fog, Detroit's skyline loomed over them to the east. Like a thousand watchful eyes, the bright lights of the skyscrapers stared down at the Detroit River, following Michelle's every move.

Blowing out a cloud of white smoke, Francis drew the small gap in the yellow curtain. He stubbed out his cigarette on the table he was sitting, and the stub joined the others that had been piling up there for hours. A quick glance at the watch — seven o'clock.

Rock 'n' Roll blared out from the cockpit.

Grim eyes fell on Richie; he hadn't moved for hours. The pistol in his limp hand bobbed up and down on his bloodstained, rolled-up shirt in uneven breaths. Another glass of water with antibiotics on the table waited to be drunk, but Richie was out cold. With an infection like this and without tackling the underlying issue — a fucking hole in his stomach — the medicine was just a drop in the ocean. The bandages around his abdomen had remained dry and clean so far. But Richie needed a doctor, a real one, because even though it might have looked like they'd stopped the bleeding, Francis didn't know what damage the marble had actually done.

Maybe he was slowly bleeding to death inside.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 4: Hellhounds (AO3)

A second passed to realize that he was the one screaming.

His father had him homeschooled, but Richie was never a good student. For as long as he could remember, he looked up to his father and wanted to follow in his footsteps. Hell, even his father let him play with his empty pistol when he was a kid, shooting at invisible people.

Growing up sheltered, Richie hardly had any friends, at least until he rebelled against his father as any bright child would do. He preferred to spend his time outside rather than with his private teachers, or, to cut it short: he skipped school whenever he could.

He wanted to explore his father's hood and search for the shady alleys that pops had always warned him about. And often his father was the one who had to pick him up before Richie got into trouble with dodgy thugs at least three times his age.

So it happened that he, who must have been nine at the time, had met with his weird buddy Steve when he actually should have had his boring geography lesson with that old bat Mrs. Smith. It was a rainy autumn afternoon, and they had hidden in the large backyard of his father's mansion, protected from prying eyes behind bushes and trees. Steve had brought something with him.

A packet of salt.

Out of curiosity and boredom, they had sprinkled salt on the slugs that came out of their hiding places. It hadn't been his idea. The slugs had foamed and writhed, and when Richie listened more closely, they sizzled as they dissolved.

Today he was to atone for his sins.

The burning iodine was eating itself into his wound like acid, and he could have sworn his flesh was sizzling just like the slugs he had killed, if his ear-splitting scream hadn't drowned it.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 3: The Mule (AO3)

"Hey!" Francis yelled and jumped to his feet when John hurried into the kitchen. John almost slipped on the wet floor when he rushed to the portable radio on the kitchen counter. With his hand in his jacket, Francis' fingers clasped the pistol in its holster. "Why aren't we moving?" he asked, approaching John without letting him out of sight.

"We're stuck," John explained hastily without looking at Francis. "If we just set off, the rudder blade could break off," he said and switched the radio on. An unpleasant dissonant static noise filled the cramped room as John turned the wheel to change the radio station. "Just let me hear what the weather forecast says."

Annoyed, Francis glanced at the radio.

"I don't ca—"

John raised his finger to his own mouth while he turned up the radio.

"—and snow, category three. Rosemont, wind from north-east at 50 miles per hour, rising more slowly. Visibility: poor," said a monotone, male voice. "We now hand over to Mr. Brown on the current traffic situation as we expect more icing on St. Lawrence Seaway throughout the night—"

Silence fell as Francis turned down the radio, except for Richie's labored breathing. The ceiling lights reflected on the metal barrel of Francis pistol as he pulled it out of his jacket. "Drive or I'll make you," he said and aimed at John. Startled, John tucked his head into his chubby double chin and held his crippled hand protectively in front of him.

"If the rudder breaks," Francis began, shrugging his shoulders as he glanced uncertainly to the side, "let it break and just go forward."

"Pardon me, sir," John said. "But that's not how ships work and—"

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Richie yelled so loud he drew John's and Francis' eyes to him. "Just get us outta here!" Frustrated and in pain, he tossed his head back on the bench, a vein pulsing on his sweaty forehead. Francis saw the red stain on Richie's shirt beneath and around his cramped hand growing bigger and bigger as something bright flashed in the corner of Francis' eye. His gaze wandered from Richie's bloody shirt to the small window in front of the dining table. A faint but rhythmic red glow illuminated the dirty yellow curtains from the outside.

Shit.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 2: Blue Boys and Pirates (AO3)

The Buick's engine started with a loud rattling noise before cutting itself off again. Francis glanced over his shoulder at Richie, who was writhing and groaning in pain on the back seat.

"Shit," Francis said nervously and turned the jingling key again to start the engine, but it just sputtered without igniting. The car had been standing in the freezing cold for too long, he guessed. Even the windshield was half covered with snow and small icicles were hanging from the side mirror.

"Come on!" Francis yelled as he frantically jerked the steering wheel with a sweaty hand, nearly slipping off, stepped hard on the gas and turned the key for the third time. With a violent jolt, the engine finally fired up, spewing out a white cloud of steam. Without a second's hesitation, Francis steered the Buick onto the snow-covered road as the wipers shoveled the snow from the windshield. Since it was already after midnight and most people were with their families over the Christmas season, there was fortunately hardly any traffic on the roads.

The hazy air, mixed with the slightly orange glow from the streetlights, became increasingly cloudy as the snow fell. They were not far away from the tailor's shop when a light suddenly flashed in the rearview mirror, catching Francis' attention. It was the headlights of a car that had just parked in front of the shop. It could only be the La Fontaines, Francis thought.

Panting and with trembling hands, Richie fumbled clumsily at the fastener of his right suspender. The colder his hands became, the more difficult it was to navigate his fingers.

Clack.

Exhaling deeply, he rolled onto his back as he finally undid the suspender that was rubbing against the entry wound on his stomach, messing up the stitches, if they were still in place at all. Resting his palm on his sweaty forehead, he noticed how sticky his fingers were. In the dim light of the passing streetlights, he saw his shaking hands in front of him, covered in blood.

"Fuck," Richie breathed.

Read more on AO3.

[itsawhumpyroad]

Chapter 1: Making a Mess without making a Mess (AO3)

"Fuck you," Richie shouted furiously. His voice was still hoarse from yelling profanities when Leonard makeshift stitched up his aching bullet wound about three hours ago.

Standing straight, he held his pistol tightly, aiming at Francis. Richie's hand was shaking.

"I run this crew," he said in a firm voice, but he couldn't hide the tears that were welling in his eyes.

"No, your pops runs this crew," Francis countered calmly and composedly. "And I spend half of every day cleaning up your messes."

A click. Richie cocked his pistol as Francis put his hand into the inside of his coat.

"You want to see me make a mess?" Richie asked. His features quivered as a whirling dance of sticky, unbearable jealousy, red-hot anger and bitter frustration raged inside him. Francis wasn't family, he was his henchman and worked for his father, but Richie would never have expected him to double-cross him. He masked his hesitation to pull the trigger with a subtle scoff.

A loud clang echoed in the room as Leonard took a step back and bumped his heel against the brass armchair leg. Quickly, Richie darted a glance to the side to see where the noise was coming from. He was distracted for a split second — long enough not to notice Francis smoothly pulling his pistol from the holster in his coat.

Read more on AO3.