Holden's throat is tight. He's looking up at him now, whether he likes it or not -- like all those murdered girls, buried under the ground. Did they see it coming? Did something change in his face first? All those young girls. Spirit wives, massing around him even here.

"Oops," Kemper says, as the weight of his body sends Holden colliding into a bank of machines -- there must be some kind of sensor, some silent alarm to go off when a disturbance is detected. Something. "I didn't mean to do that."

His massive hand finds its way inside the collar of Holden's shirt. It's warm and sterile on the nape of his neck, spanning the top knob of his spine. Kemper's thinking about it now, all the things he could get away with in here. All the things he could do using nothing but his body. He can see that in his face -- in his fathomless eyes, in the softness of his smile.

The throat is an erogenous zone. Holden's jaw is quaking, his teeth work together inside his mouth -- Kemper's face presses into him, and it brings the soft white expanse of his neck so close, prickling with stubble and smelling like antiseptic. The smell of him is strong but not unpleasant, warmed by body temperature. They're both sweating.

It's difficult to make a sound. Kemper is stifling him.

His big knee presses between Holden's thighs. Holden scrambles and kicks out, but his shoes slip on the tile -- he's going to die with perfectly shined shoes, and Kemper will be barefoot. The IV stand rattles on its wheels and goes careening off into the wall -- Holden's mouth is open but there's no sound, only Kemper's hands on him ruining the stiffness of his collar, pressing new wrinkles into his suit.