Monachopsis

Chapter XLI: Is Burning Paintings A Mob Thing?

I took a running start at the tall iron gates. Pale moonlight illuminates the decorative swirls of the gates as I clamber up the monstrosity like a cat up a tree. Dean and Sam followed close behind, their larger feet claiming footholds I map out for them. The gates swung and clanged together noisily as we scaled them, and then threw ourselves over. A slight shooting pain jolted up my ankles as I landed. My feet pounded against the stone ground as I bolted straight for the door. 

Sam was on my heels when we reached the doors, and immediately began working the alarm system on the wall. My heart pounded, blood roaring in my ears as I waited with baited breath. This job was low risk, but the adrenaline coursing through me had my cheeks flushed and breath hot. I bounced on the balls of my feet as my brother disconnected the keypad from the wall and began delicately fiddling with the tangle of wires behind it. Dean was crouched in front of the door, lock-picking tools set in the lock, ready to go when Sam gave the word.

A few more heartbeats, and the red bulb on the keypad flashed green. Sam looked down at Dean. "Go ahead."

Without a word, Dean wiggled his tools in the lock. It took a moment, and then he twisted sharply to the left. The lock clicked, the door swung open, and I was off like a shot.

The inside of the auction house was eerily dark and silent. The stone tiles scuffed our shoes as we stalked between furniture and statues. I gripped my flashlight as I swung it too and fro, using it to light my path as I searched.

Suddenly, Dean paused. I looked at him, then followed his gaze up to the second floor. Between the bars of the rail, the creepy faces of the Merchant family were illuminated in a mixture of moonlight and the bright glare of Dean's flashlight.

Sam and I followed closely behind Dean as we loped up the stairs. Dean immediately gripped the frame, probably intent on slicing the picture from the gilded paneling. I snatched his wrist before he could.

"Careful," I hissed, making sure to keep my voice low even if I was pretty sure there was no one around to hear us. 

"What?" he snapped.

I clenched my jaw and very quickly plucked the pocket knife from his grasp. "We need to make sure not part of the picture is left behind. Otherwise it might kill someone else."

He grumbled, but relented. He took the knife back from me, and the three of us made quick work of freeing the painting from the canvas. Sam rolled it up as Dean flipped his knife closed, but I bolted for the stairs. My heart was skipping, adrenaline making it impossible for me to wait for them. I heard their rapid footsteps behind me; so much heavier and longer than mine. 

Somehow, scaling the gate again seemed even easier than before. Now that the job was almost over, my body was wired with energy. I clambered over the gate and onto the other side quicker than last time. I turned and held my hands up, ready for when Sam chucked the torn square of canvas over the top of the gate. I caught it easily enough. It was strange to me, even after years of hunting, that something as benign and flimsy as color on canvas can be responsible for so many deaths. 

"There's a dirt road not too far from here," Dean said as we hurried back to the car. "I say we burn this sucker and hit the road."

I laughed, the high of the job making me almost giddy. "I am not leaving without a shower. Being stuck in the car with you two morons for days is bad enough. I'm not gonna stink too."

The roar of the Impala's engine was music. Unsurprisingly, the roads were dead at this time of night. We passed one or two cars at the most on our way to the outskirts. Subtlety was impossible in this car, but the thought of setting this painting on fire soothed the worst of my nerves.

Dean didn't show any signs of slowing down until we were far down a barren dirt road just outside of town. Once all signs of civilization were hidden by the dense treeline, he rolled the car to a stop and shut the engine off. I puffed out a breath as we all climbed out. My heart had slowed, and the aftereffects of the adrenaline left me feeling shaky. 

I followed the boys a few feet away from the road to a patch of dirt near the trees. It was empty of any grass or plant life, and it wasn't windy, so once we set the painting ablaze, it wouldn't spread into a wildfire. I laid the canvas carefully in the dirt and took a step back as Sam drenched the canvas in gasoline.

"Ugly-ass thing," Dean said. He struck a match. "If you ask me, we're doing the art world a favor."

He tossed the match, and the painting immediately burst into flames. Fire warped the image of Isaiah Merchant and his family, curling the edges and bubbling the paint. The three of us stood there for a long while, watching as fire consumed the portrait. Heat from the flames warmed my skin and dried the sweat in my clothes.

"So that's it, huh?" My voice broke the easy quiet of crackling fire. My brothers looked at me.

"Let's hope so," Sam murmured. He looked almost forlornly down at the burning painting. Though he didn't say so out loud, I knew his mind was with Sarah. 

I never told him as much, but I could tell he really did like her. I wasn't about to be a dick about it, like Dean, but I couldn't really explain it. I just...knew. The same way you knew your clothes were dirty, even if they didn't smell. Or how you could tell a storm was coming, even if the weatherman told you otherwise. Like the smell of rain or the feel of still air.

"At least we know for sure no one else is gonna get hurt," Dean said. His eyes were on Sam's face. When he glanced over at me, his expression was unreadable. I simply nodded, and shoved my hands in my pockets.

I murmured softly, "Just another job."