This was one of my least favorite Dean Koontz novels. It's 600 pages, of which the last 200 were a slog.
What kept me reading was the search for the answer to the riddle posed about a third of the way in: What will you find behind the door that is one door away from Heaven?
The answer to the question was a quagmire of philosophical gobbledygook that flew so far over my head it died for lack of oxygen.
I thought maybe I missed something so I Googled it, and it seems I'm not alone among Koontz fans who were disappointed that there wasn't a better answer.
Oh well. Even a disappointing Koontz novel is still better than most others out there.
I give it a 6- on the Haugenometer.
This book was written 15 years ago, so maybe Dean was going through a phase, but it's difficult to find an adjective he didn't use in this book. Multiple, strings of them. Like the Griswold house at Christmas. If you need to tell me the color of the carpet, just do. Tell me it's red. Don't spend two paragraphs describing the color, feel and odor. I don't care.
Maybe others do. I don't.