Ground Zero (The X-Files) by Kevin Anderson, Chris Carter (Creator) Page B

ribbing him.
    The main room had all the usual furniture—sofa, love seat, a television, a stereo set—but it didn’t look as if it had been used terribly often. On the coffee table in front of the sofa a pile of old magazines lay partially buried under a dozen technical reports bearing the logo of the Teller Nuclear Research Facility and several more from the Los Alamos and Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories. The pale tan walls had a smooth and buttery appearance, like soft clay. Alcoves molded around a fireplace displayed an assortment of small knick-knacks. Painted Anasazi pots sat on small shelves; bright spirit-catchers decorated the walls. A wreath of dried red chili peppers hung centered over the mantel.
    The entire house had the authentic Santa Fe 53
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    flavor, but Mulder got the impression these decorations must have been artfully arranged by Dr. Gregory’s long-dead wife, and the old scientist had not had the stamina or the incentive to redecorate the main part of the house in his own style.
    “After he lost his wife, Dr. Gregory didn’t seem to have any interests aside from his work,” Scully said, flipping through the dossier again. “According to this record, he took a two-month leave of absence to arrange for the funeral and to get his mind back on things—but apparently he didn’t know what to do with himself. Since his return to work at the Teller Nuclear Research Facility, his employee file is stuffed with commendations. It seems he threw himself into his research with complete abandon. It was his entire life.”
    “Any record there of what he was really working on?”
    Mulder asked.
    “Because his project was highly classified, it doesn’t specify.”
    “Same old story,” Mulder said.
    In the kitchen Scully found several bottles of prescription pain killers on the countertop. She shook them and studied the labels. Some of the bottles were half empty.
    “He was taking some pretty heavy medication…analgesics and narcotics,” she said. “The pain from his cancer must have been incredible. I haven’t gotten his personal medical record unsealed yet, but Dr. Gregory undoubtedly knew he only had a few months to live.”
    “Yet he still went to work every day,” Mulder said. “Now that’s dedication.”
    He wandered around in the empty house, not sure what he was looking for. He crossed the living room and stepped down a side hallway that led to the back bedrooms and study. Along these walls, in
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    the private part of Gregory’s home, was a completely different style of decoration.
    Framed photos adorned the wall in a haphazard arrangement that implied a man with a hammer and a nail, but without the patience or desire to use a yardstick and level. It looked as if the photos had been mounted as Dr. Gregory collected them over the years, one at a time, and placed wherever he found room.
    Each image was different, yet with one striking similarity: the repetitive fury of huge atomic mushroom clouds, nuclear blasts, one after another—some more powerful than others. Mulder spotted a desert backdrop behind some of the blasts, while many others showed the ocean and Navy destroyers. Teams of scientists, identifiable in their cotton shirts and black-rimmed glasses, smiled for the camera beside military officers and other men in uniforms.
    “And to think some people collect paintings of Elvis on black velvet,” Mulder said, studying the mushroom clouds. Scully came up beside him. “I recognize some of those pictures,” she said. “Classic photos. Those were the Marshall Islands hydrogen bomb detonations of the mid-fifties. These others…I think they were aboveground blasts at the Nevada Test Site, a few shots from Project Plowshare.” She stared at the photos. Mulder looked at her, surprised by the disturbed expression on her face.
    “Something wrong?”
    She shook her head, then tucked a strand of light auburn hair behind her ear. “No…no, it’s not that. I