Re: Campbells.
The air smelled clean and like pine-sap and a lack of pollution. Russ who was now adjusted to Gotham smog, drank in a lungful that was cool and clear, like drinking a glass of ice water all in one go. He squinted in the bright, early sunshine at Ford and he eyed that backpack.
This part of the pantomime, Russ didn't understand. He could see, clear as day that the kid was saying something about strangling and he figured the next bit, that was death. But Russ assumed (for all the strength, car-kicking and knocking him flat on his ass) that Ford was no more capable of hurting anyone than a particularly pouty baby angel. Now he gave the treeline no more thought than he would have done behind three sets of door locks back home in Gotham, and he gave Ford a flat look of disbelief.
"You killed someone?" It sounded absolutely empty of conviction, "You mean your body killed someone?" That sounded a hell of a lot closer to the truth. "Or you got killed?" Yeah, okay, he could see how Ford might be skittish after that, and he gave his little brother a tentative look of sympathy. "It ain't stuck. None of the hotel stuck." Well. Maybe a little had. But not death.