Fackelmann's scam and the wraith's return (p. 933)
The wraith is back, right by the bed, dressed like before and blurred at the edges in the hat-shadowed spill of hallway-light, and except now with him is another, younger, way more physically fit wraith in kind of faggy biking shorts and a U.S. tank top who’s leaning way over Gately’s railing and… fucking licking Gately’s forehead with a rough little tongue, and as Gately reflexively strikes out at the guy’s map—no man put his tongue on D. W. Gately and lived—he has just enough time to realize the wraith’s breath has no warmth to it, or smell, before both wraiths vanish and a blue forked bolt of pain from his sudden striking-out sends him back against his hot pillow with an arched spine and a tube-impeded scream, his eyes rolling back into the dove-colored light of whatever isn’t quite sleep.
Context
The second visit: the wraith brings company. The fit second wraith is never named, but bike shorts plus tank top plus a sweat-hungry rough little tongue (Lyle's is "like a kitty's," p. 128) = Lyle — an inference the LISLE ghostword at p. 919 already made, and one that implies Lyle is dead, or something other than alive, which the book never says. The breath with no warmth or smell is the scene's one hard physical datum about wraiths. (The ellipsis in "and… fucking licking" is the text's own, not a trim.)