The Bodyguard ("Echo story #92)

ECHO
by Michael Kroetch

The bodyguard is being watched. He tries to maintain his stride with his usual momentum, but he can feel it—someone is following him. He hates it. This being out in the open like those he protects is not how things are supposed to be. It’s why he curls off the street, huffing into an alley for the comfort of shadows. He hears the echo of footsteps dogging him. Although he wants to see who is at his heels, he won’t turn his head. That would draw attention. So, instead, he gets his gun out. Just in case things escalate.

Its precise lines feel good against his palm. Their beauty calms him. But only a little. What he really needs is a crowd, or, even better, some office building. A place full of deliberate and dark-suited silhouettes just like him. Briefcase or no briefcase, they would accept him as one of their own and allow him to pass untroubled through their busy glass hive. Amid their stream of expectant faces, phones, and doors his directive would not be an issue. He could blend, become again invisible—which is what he needs most. Because to be unseen is to be unquestioned. Secure. And security is what he is all about. Or is supposed to be. Questions are to be avoided. So, as he was taught, he does his best to smother the multitude blistering through his head and to focus instead on duty and the necessity of the moment.

But he can’t see any doorways or tunnels up to the glass hives above the alley. The only objects visible are some wooden crates, a dead rat, two used condoms, and dozens of cardboard boxes of National Geographic magazines dumped over and split open—revealing dark cars, cathedrals, and exotic people far away. People who probably need protection. Ordinarily, of course, he would be leaping out of his shoes to offer such service, but right now this is not something he is even able to consider because right now… He hears the furtive cackle of footsteps. A sound getting closer. And closer. In desperation, he taps his wire. There isn’t even static. Could need a new battery. Been over a year. Hasn’t it? Or has it? He isn’t sure. And although he knows he shouldn’t be asking questions, in his training they’d instilled the need to keep track of such things. “When on duty, you have to look out for yourself.” It’s what they’d said. And was all they said on the subject. They never mentioned anything about anyone looking out for you. Certainly not about anyone tracking you. It goes against everything he’s supposed to be. He’s failed, clearly failed the most elemental command—to be invisible—which means now he’ll never rise any further upward within the regime. His future is now as good as over. He knows it. He’ll never again be able to do his duty. Not properly, at least.

But worse than the fact of whoever is back there mirroring his steps, is the realization he’s been stabbed in the back by his own questions. This thought is so devastating it allows something to happen that should not ever happen—he lets himself feel something. And because of this, his hand turns into a fist and he slams this fist hard on a dumpster. It booms loudly in response. Reverberates. Echoes. Then all it quiet. Terribly so. That’s when he feels a set of fingers glide down onto his shoulder and turns to see the obliterated face and too-beautifully-blue-to-be-true eyes of the jack-o-lantern girl.