The Song of Orpheus

Spenser: To me, March had always been the cruelest month. Cold, damp, bitter. Even in childhood, I never liked its coming, and over the years, I never got over the sense of dread when February was gone. Hawk died three days ago. I knew it. The gun they recovered was his, and the little guy who saw him killed was too frightened to lie. And it was March, and Hawk was dead. I tried to deny it. Hawk was invulnerable. He was too good at what he did, too precise to be fooled, too wise to be conned, to quick to be caught. In my head, Hawk would never die. But in my heart, it was March, and Hawk was dead.