The Philosophers' Game

Chapter 11: Blackmail

Chapter 11: Blackmail

When I was living in Massachusetts, sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night didn't seem like such a big deal, partly because it happened fairly often. There was always a friend waiting outside in a car to pick you up. There was always the promise of fun and exciting times ahead.

But in Ocala, sneaking out was not about going to meet some friends and party at a nearby club every couple of weeks; sneaking out just meant something important was going to happen in relation to the Philosophers' game. And more often than not, I wasn't a fan of the Something Important.

So you can imagine my hesitancy and lack of enthusiasm when Aristotle demanded that I meet him and Socrates in the Shack at precisely 2:17 Sunday morning. Any time that specific should be considered extremely suspicious, I thought to myself as I checked my watch for the tenth time in the last eight minutes. You didn't need to be a spy to figure that out.

I closed the front door as quietly as I possibly could, then jogged across the grass toward the street, thus avoiding the noise of footsteps smacking the cobblestone driveway. The rest of my walk was the harder part, as I weaved in and out of the shadows cast by the street lamps, but moved at a pace that hopefully wouldn't seem worrisome to any sleepless souls who might be peering out of their windows. After all, Ocala had a curfew for minors, and the last thing I wanted to have to do was run from the police.

At 2:15, I met Socrates at the gate to the junkyard, and together we nimbly hopped over the pieces of scrap metal blocking our path to the unlocked Shack. Inside, the familiar oil lantern was absent from its usual hook on the wall, and so we blindly fumbled to pry open the secret door and make our way down the earthen staircase. Only when we were equidistant from the underground room and the entrance to the Shack did the lantern's flickering glow show our feet the remaining steps.  

"Take a seat," Aristotle said, motioning to the empty chairs around the round table. He was slouched in the largest one - an antique wooden dining chair - with one of his legs crossed over the other and one hand resting impatiently near the lamp. His expression was stoic and unforgiving, and altogether his presence felt imposing. Seemingly more confident than I'd ever seen him, he looked to me a lot like the Godfather, like the leader of an organized crime ring.

Socrates and I did what we were told, though the former didn't look happy about being ordered around. "Let's skip the formalities and get to the point, shall we?" he suggested with a certain passive-aggressive poise. "If we stall too long, someone who wasn't invited might...accidentally barge in on us."

Aristotle snorted. "If you're thinking about tipping off Plato to our meeting, stop. Not long ago the Open Forum created the opportunity for a three-way alliance between us, and I want to make sure it's still an option. Right now, I trust Plato the least of any Philosopher."

"That's funny. Personally, I would say you are the least trustworthy," I told Aristotle, thinking about his nearly kicking me out of the Mathletes. Meanwhile, in obvious confusion, Socrates glanced back and forth between the two of us.

Unamused, the president of the Open Forum frowned and crossed his arms. To prove his motivations rang true, he explained, "I don't think either one of you would have thought to steal the ledger. Try not to be offended. No doubt you're both capable of making cunning plays, but I believe you can recognize the moment just before the real chaos breaks, and you know that's when to stop. You plan ahead in depth, and you're likely to go about your plan in a social, honorable way: face to face. Causing this much chaos with the ledger isn't just arrogant - it's impulsive and sneaky. I know I didn't steal the ledger, so that leaves us two suspects: Plato and Diogenes.