Tommy Phan is a 30-year-old Vietnamese-American detective and novelist living in Southern California, and a chaser of the American Dream. He drives home his brand-new Corvette one day to discover a strange doll on his doorstep. It's  a rag doll made entirely of white cloth, with no face or hair or clothes. Where the eyes should be, there are two crossed stitches of black thread. Five sets of crossed black stitches mark the mouth, and another pair form an X over the heart. He brings it into the house. That night, he hears an odd little popping sound and looks up to see the crossed stitches over the doll's heart breaking apart. When he picks up the doll, he feels something pulsing in its chest. Another thread unravels to reveal a reptilian green eye --and not a doll's eye, because it blinks. Tommy Phan pursues the thing as it scrambles away into his house -- and then is pursued by it as it evolves from a terrifying and vicious minikin into a hulking and formidable opponent bent on killing him. BONUS: This edition contains an excerpt from Dean Koontz's  The City . “[A] funny, chilling, supernatural suspense novel.”— Providence Journal-Bulletin   “Dean Koontz is not just a master of our darkest dreams, but also a literary juggler.”— The Times (London)   “[Koontz is] a master storyteller. Sometimes humorous, sometimes shocking, but always riveting. His characters sparkle with life.”— The San Diego Union-Tribune   “Koontz writes first-rate suspense, scary and stylish.” —Los Angeles Times Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Elsa, and the enduring spirit of their goldens, Trixie and Anna. Chapter One Out of a cloudless sky on a windless November day came a sudden shadow that swooped across the bright aqua Corvette. Tommy Phan was standing beside the car, in pleasantly warm autumn sunshine, holding out his hand to accept the keys from Jim Shine, the salesman, when the fleeting shade touched him. He heard a brief thrumming like frantic wings. Glancing up, he expected to glimpse a sea gull, but not a single bird was in sight. Unaccountably, the shadow had chilled him as though a cold wind had come with it, but the air was utterly still. He shivered, felt a blade of ice touch his palm, and jerked his hand back, even as he realized, too late, that it wasn't ice but merely the keys to the Corvette. He looked down in time to see them hit the pavement. He said, "Sorry," and started to bend over. Jim Shine said, "No, no. I'll get 'em." Perplexed, frowning, Tommy raised his gaze to the sky again. Unblemished blue. Nothing in flight. The nearest trees, along the nearby street, were phoenix palms with huge crowns of fronds, offering no branches on which a bird could alight. No birds were perched on the roof of the car dealership, either. "Pretty exciting," Shine said. Tommy looked at him, slightly disoriented. "Huh?" Shine was holding out the keys again. He resembled a pudgy choirboy with guileless blue eyes. Now, when he winked, his face squinched into a leer that was meant to be comic but that seemed disconcertingly like a glimpse of genuine and usually well-hidden decadence. "Getting that first 'vette is almost as good as getting your first piece of ass." Tommy was trembling and still inexplicably cold. He accepted the keys. They no longer felt like ice. The aqua Corvette waited, as sleek and cool as a high mountain spring slipping downhill over polished stones. Overall length: one hundred seventy-eight and a half inches. Wheelbase: ninety-six and two-tenths inches. Seventy and seven-tenths inches in width at the dogleg, forty-six and three-tenths inches high, with a minimum ground clearance of four and two-tenths inches. Tommy knew the technical specifications of this car better than any preacher knew the details of any Bible story. He was a Vietnamese-American, and America was his religion; the highway was his church, and the Corvette was about to become the sacred vessel by which he partook of communion. Although he was no prude, Tommy was mildly offended when Shine compared the transcendent experience of Corvette ownership to sex. For the moment, at least, the Corvette was better than any bedroom games, more exciting, purer, the very embodiment of speed and grace and freedom. Tommy shook Jim Shine's soft, slightly moist hand and slid into the driver's seat. Thirty-six and a half-inches of headroom. Forty-two inches of legroom. His heart was pounding. He was no longer chilled. In fact, he felt flushed. He had already plugged his cellular phone into the cigarette lighter. The Corvette was his. Crouching at the open window, grinning, Shine said, "You're not just a mere mortal any more." Tommy started the engine. A ninety-degree V-8. Cast-iron block. Aluminum heads with hydraulic lifters. Jim Shine raised his voice. "No longer like other men. Now you're a god." T