Without Prejudice by Andrew Rosenheim

rider hunched forward, arms extended, his hands gripping the drumstick handles, his backside perched in the air.
    ‘Sophie.’ He turned and called towards the boathouse.
    She didn’t call back. Patiently, he called again, but still she didn’t answer. He walked to the boathouse and peered inside, saying, ‘Come on, monkey, time to go.’
    Sophie wasn’t there.
    He felt his heart beat faster, an ominous growing thump that rose up into his throat and ears. Anxiety coated him like sweat. He tried to still his racing thoughts and took a last penetrating look inside – there was simply no place to hide in the vast empty space. Then he ran out, looking around him like a camera on a dolly. He realised she couldn’t possibly have come this way without his seeing her – her and the abductor he was starting to fear.
    He could see what had happened: they’d been followed, unknowing as they blithely made their way along the beach, all the while watched by someone with the patience of a hunter. His ten minutes staring goon-like at some stupid jet-ski rider would have given plenty of time to move.
    His panic rose, but the logic seemed clear enough, so he went around to the rear of the boathouse. A path led up through the dune and he looked at the seemingly endless moguls of sand. As if footprints would be visible. He began to run up the dune, his feet sliding with each step in the baseless bleached grains. Reaching the small summit, he could see a large ranch-style house in the distance, several acres of lawn and hardwood trees around it. A perimeter fence at the foot of the hill screened off the property, and the fence ran on either side for several hundred yards.
    He shouted out, ‘Sophie, Sophie,’ but could hear only his wheezy breathing.
    He sensed time was critical – isn’t that what the police always said? He turned and retraced his steps down the dune, accelerating downhill until he almost fell when he hit the flatness of the beach. He circled to the front of the boathouse and then out onto the beach. Scanning the stretch of sand on either side, he could just make out the Poindexter sailboat moving briskly away from shore. There was no sign of the labrador man.
    ‘Sophie, where are you?’ he cried. He found it hard to think clearly; it seemed unreal.
    He started back to the boathouse, atavistically returning to the initial point of panic. He peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the light, baffled and terrified at the same time. He wondered where to look next – should he run back to the coach house and call the police? Or climb the fence over the dune and run to that house for help?
    Then he made out a faint noise. A tinkling sound, gurgling like running water. He looked to his left, in the dust-enshrouded corner of the boathouse, just as he realised the noise was that of laughter – a child’s laugh. Sophie stood there, with one hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking in her deep amusement.
    ‘Jesus,’ he said in astonishment as she came scurrying out of the corner.
    ‘I fooled you,’ she said, and he felt a monumental anger replace his relief. Before he could even stop to think, he had grabbed her by the arm, and in one quick motion slapped her tiny rump. The smack echoed in the room.
    Sophie clutched her bottom with both hands, a look of outrage on her face. Her mouth, gaping in astonishment, suddenly fell into the turned-down wobble of a crying jag, and she wailed in pain before running out of the boathouse.
    He followed her, furious that she had let his fear grow into panic. He hadn’t expected her to come out right away – inevitably her games needed some terminating flourish beyond his time limit – but she had crossed a line she had never crossed before.
    They walked like this all the way home, Sophie striding angrily ahead, the hurt transferring from her bottom to her pride, Robert grimly following, ashamed of himself for smacking her, but still angry that she had played this trick on him.