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The Night Strangler (The Night Stalker #2)

3.74 of 5 stars 3.74  ·  rating details  ·  34 ratings  ·  4 reviews
A Belly Dance of Death

Ethel Parker was a belly dancer. When Ethel Parker moved, men watched and wanted. But now Ethel Parker wasn't moving. She was lying in a Seattle alley with her neck crushed and blood drained -- the victim of unnatural vengeance. In the weeks to come more young women would die the same way. Unearthly terror had struck once more...and once more, reporte
Paperback, 160 pages
Published 1974 by Pocket
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So, following on the heels of my retrospective review of The Night Stalker, here's a (hopefully shorter) review of the follow-up book.

So Rice's unpublished novel, THE KOLCHAK TAPES, spawned an ABC made-for-TV movie starring Darren McGavin as our intrepid reporter - and it was a ratings blockbuster. So huge that a sequel was obviously in order. ABC got stellar talent Richard Matheson to script it, His initial idea - Kolchak versus an ageless Jack The Ripper - he eventually deemed too close to his
Doctor Edward Diesel
As enjoyable as the first. Carl Kolchak is great character.
Aaron VanAlstine
This book was better than the prequel, probably because Richard Matheson was involved. However, it still suffers from much of Jeff Rice's atrocious writing. Anyway, the story is familiar: Kolchak has decamped to Seattle after wearing out his welcome in Las Vegas. Someone-or thing-is stalking and strangling Seattle’s young women and drawing small amounts of their blood for mysterious yet no doubt nefarious purposes. Kolchak immediately hooks-up with a houseboat-dwelling UW co-ed who also moonligh ...more
Victor Mabuse
Although not as good as the first book, it was still an enjoyable read. It corresponds to the movie quite well.
Shar marked it as to-read
Apr 29, 2015
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Jan 10, 2015
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Dec 28, 2014
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Jeffrey Grant Rice was born in Providence, Rhode Island, USA in 1944. He spent his early childhood in Beverly Hills. He has been a Las Vegas resident since 1955.

Jeff Rice is best known as the author of The Kolchak Papers, a novel he finished on October 31, 1970. Rice’s novel was still unpublished when it was optioned for television and adapted for a TV audience as The Night Stalker. It subsequentl
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Other Books in the Series

The Night Stalker (2 books)
  • The Night Stalker
The Kolchak Papers: The Original Novels The Night Stalker I've Had Bigger: And Other Things My Wife Said The Virtual Monk The Catalpa Trees, and other stories

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“Nowhere. No one is ever going to hear from you again, sir. No one."

'Uh... well... I...'

'You profane my world, sir! I cannot... I will not permit you to exist... here!"

'In that case, Doctor, why not tell me of your work? You know... condemned man's last request.'

He walked over and put a paternal arm around my shoulders, but the grip of his hand was like steel. He was a lot stronger than he looked. Not big or beefy. But strong.

'Just a dumb reporter... doing his job...'

He looked closely at me, eye to eye.

'You grovel nicely, Mr...'

'Kolchak, sir.'

'Story. You want your story, do you, Mr. Kolchak? Your precious, pitiful story? Your bloody pound of journalistic flesh?'

I smiled but it stuck halfway into a sickly grin. I was clammy. I was trembling. I could feel my wet trouser leg sticking to my flesh and was grateful I'd eaten nothing solid.”
“Then shouts from the direction of the doorway. I started to black out, kneeing him in the crotch to no effect and clawing in panic at his hands, the flesh sloughing off under my nails.

Then suddenly he straightened, and looked toward the door.

Schubert came charging through, his service revolver raised. Two more officers came right behind.

He whirled away from them as if to hide his ruined face. But he didn't hide it from me! He looked at me with what passed for a fixed and hideous grin, although it might have been the death rictus of his facial muscles. His voice was like a tinny rasp, hollow and unreal.

"When the world starts to chew itself up alive, and spits out its own guts... be it on your conscience, Mr. Kolchak!"

He staggered away. Schubert was yelling for me to stop him. I made a grab for his coat but it came off in my hand. The acid.

He bolted for what had been an outside window, now boarded up, and smashed through it.

We could hear his wail all the way down. And a distant, echoing clatter of falling wood... and glass... and bones.”
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