When a novelist writes a novel about a novelist, one will always be suspect some therapeutic projection is going on — especially when the 'baddie' is a book critic. Obviously, I can't comment on the accuracy of that suspicion in this case, so I'll stick to the story: The premise is thrilling, and based on my previous Koontz reads, I was expecting it to be a page-turner — which, to be fair, most of it was. I'd already discovered that a certain ability to suspend belief is necessary to enjoy a Koontz work, and it remained the case here, but I found most of the book engaging despite conveniences that push the liberties of 'creative licence'.

But the ending disappointed me, and a bad ending sours the whole story. If the manuscript didn't have such a big ticket saleable name attached to it, I don't think it would have made it to publication without an ending re-write. It was too sudden, too easy, and over too quickly with inadequate explanation. Deus ex Machinas are BAD — not just cheating/laziness/lack-of-imagination on the part of the writer, but they're immensely cruel to the reader, as they learn the time they used to read the book was wasted, any enjoyment they'd had along the way undone. This novel also leaves questions/oddities unanswered. At a lot of the more unbelievable (to the point of undigestible) moments throughout the story, I'd put my protests aside because I anticipated explanation of them at the end. It was not so, here.

For the less picky among you, this novel may suit you just fine, as a superficial thrill adventure. I hope, for Mr Koontz' sake, there are plenty of you out there.